


Time Travel's a Bitch

by wildimaginingsofhalfbakedideas



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alan Deaton Being an Asshole, Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Everybody Lives, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Panic Attacks, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Warning: Kate Argent, canon is my bitch and i do what i want, low key pack mom stiles stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:28:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27074245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildimaginingsofhalfbakedideas/pseuds/wildimaginingsofhalfbakedideas
Summary: A wolf howled, long and mournful. Stiles looked around, his breath coming in visible puffs on the frosty air as he searched for fur and fangs and sad eyes, but he saw only the swaying green limbs of evergreen trees in the wind. Snow started to fall and he looked up at the white sky, blinking, before he fell backwards to land softly on a familiar bed. He blinked again and the soft white of the sky solidified into his bedroom ceiling with its neon green glow in the dark stars. He watched as a nebula formed in the space between his outstretched hand and the plastic stars, mesmerized as it roiled and burned in fast forward to birth a star, a real one, right into his bedroom. The star burned white hot against his skin, so bright and painful that his nerves couldn’t compute. He twisted away desperately, crying out. A dark skinned man in the corner watched calmly as he writhed and said, “We begin in the dark, and birth is the death of us.” Stiles screamed as the fire sunk into his skin, his soul, and fell once more into the darkness.//Stiles ends up in 2004, before the Hale fire, and learns a lot about himself, life, and what it means to hold onto what you love and not let go.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 89
Kudos: 860





	1. Blame Deaton

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a fic where I attempt to fit as many of my favorite tropes as possible. For science.

Stiles stumbled over a root and struggled manfully to keep himself from falling. Somehow he managed and continued on, breath laboring in his chest. Mentally, where it could never be heard by the ‘wolf in question, he silently thanked Derek for the runs he’d been forced to go on the past few months in training. Those long hours had not only provided a well-needed outlet for all of his energy and anxiety, but were now being put to very good use as his soles pounded against the slightly slick ground. It was that odd in-between season where winter hadn’t quite crept its way in, but frost still coated the ground whenever the sun wasn’t there to discourage it and it made the leaves slippery under his feet. Months ago, he wouldn’t have had the agility to keep himself upright as long as he had. Honestly, it was still a miracle he hadn’t fallen at least once, given that he’d been practically sprinting in near darkness for over a mile now. He could see his breath in front of his face as he panted, illuminated temporarily by the light of the moon before his momentum carried him under the shadows of trees once more.

He ran his fingers over the different potions in his pockets, desperately trying to remember Deaton’s instructions. Unfortunately, even (especially) in life or death situations, the enigmatic ex-Emissary was skimpy on the details and heavy on the vague implications of doom. Therefore, it was not at all surprising that the plan had gone to hell.

The bodies had been piling up for weeks, always male, always between the ages of sixteen and twenty-four, always brown-haired and brown eyed. Which was why Stiles was the perfect bait. Derek had been growly about the plan as they discussed it in the loft that afternoon, pacing back and forth in agitation. Stiles had paid no attention; Derek was always growly. It was his natural state of being. Jackson had thought it had been a great idea, which really should have been a sign that Stiles was about to receive bodily harm, but in all honesty, he was more than used to it by now. He was fairly certain that his skin was more scarred than not and where there would otherwise be blank space, he was covered in runes and binding tattoos. It was certainly a Look, one that still sometimes caught him by surprise in the mirror as he was getting in the shower. He couldn’t say that it was a bad one, per se. Honestly, some days, when he was feeling confident and edged with the knowledge of all that he and his pack had survived in the past year and a half, he rather liked how badass it made him look. Other days, he just remembered the blood and the agony and the screaming.

The night that Jackson had died, come back to life, and renounced his scaly ways was the night that Stiles had also learned that he was not quite as human as originally thought. He’d known that maybe he had some sort of special ability, thanks to Deaton and his whole cryptic ‘Be the spark, have some magic fairy dust, believe in the power of magic’ spiel which resulted in Stiles being able to stretch a handful of mountain ash far beyond logical spatial reasoning. But that was nothing compared to what he was now. He still sometimes dreamt of that dimly lit basement, of Erica and Boyd chained and electrocuted in the corner, of the desperation to save what he’d come to think fiercely as  _ his _ pack. It wasn’t until over an hour into the taunting, beating, burning, that knives were brought into the equation. It was Stiles’ belief that Gerard started losing himself to the bloodlust, like the monster he was, and forgot his purpose after a while. Still, even as the manic gleam grew in the old man’s eyes, Stiles found himself becoming more and more desperate. He mouthed off, keeping the attention on him to try and spare Erica and Boyd as much as possible, no matter how foolish an endeavor that was. Then, at the first bite of a blade in his side, he felt it: the warmth in his chest that was at once so foreign and so familiar. It awoke like a stretching cat, reluctant, yet with claws already unsheathed. He didn’t quite remember what happened after that, but he woke up on the floor, bleeding and exhausted. Erica and Boyd were still unconscious, but the battery that had been torturing them for hours was now ashes and their wounds were healing rapidly. He’d managed to get them down, but he’d had to wait until they woke up before they could climb out of the basement together to get to safety - not that there was anything left of the hunters to escape from. The walls of the Argents’ basement reminded Stiles of pictures he’d seen of the aftermath of the atomic bomb at Hiroshima. Ash shadows were all that remained of the men who’d sought pleasure in torturing three teenagers and Stiles couldn’t find it within himself to feel an ounce of remorse or sympathy. 

Lacking a better plan, Stiles took the two betas home with him. He brought them upstairs, let them clean themselves up in his bathroom, gave them clothes, fed them, then did the same for himself. Then, to his surprise, Scott texted him asking him to bring Lydia to help save Jackson. Safe to say it was the last thing he expected to hear from his best friend in the moment, but far be it from Stiles to refuse to help his pack so he packed up the still shell-shocked Erica and Boyd into his Jeep and set off for Lydia’s house. 

Those first few months, his spark had steadily grown and, thanks to only slightly helpful tips from Deaton and unhealthy amounts of time reading every reasonably legitimate book on supernatural phenomena he could get his hands on, he’d gained moderate control over his magic. Yet, no matter how much he cajoled, prodded, begged, bargained, and generally annoyed the veterinarian, Deaton still refused to officially train him in the ways of wizardry. Then, he’d met Maira. 

No one in the pack knew about his lessons with the mage. He’d met her by accident, while hunting down one of those obscure books on things that go bump in the night, over an hour outside of Beacon Hills. She was terrifying, in the way that Derek and Lydia were terrifying, and he adored her. She was the one who taught him how to use his magic like a sixth sense (and yes, he had had many jokes about that), how to hide himself completely from beings with heightened senses, how to heal himself when he was injured. And that was just the first week. She treated him like an annoying younger brother and he absorbed all the information she had to give him like a sponge. It was a lovely relationship, truly.

He still wasn’t anywhere close to Emissary status though, leaving him still relegated to the role of human fount of supernatural knowledge and of minimal use in an actual battle. Sure, he was handy with a bat and had even crafted himself some specialty weapons that he’d taken great strides in learning how to use, but he didn’t have any of those with him now. He also had a history of being flung into things at speeds too great for his fragile, non-wolfy healing body to handle.

He was also not nearly as fast as his half-human friends. Nor the freaking  _ vampire _ that was chasing him. 

“Vampires aren’t real, Stiles,” he wheezed to himself. “Don’t be ridiculous, Stiles.”  _ Guess what, Derek,  _ he continued in his head, leaving his breath for his frantic flight,  _ I was right, you were wrong, and you owe me  _ so many _ apologies for this. With actual words. And food. Food always works as an apology. _

He forced his legs to keep moving, though his traitorous brain skittered off in different directions. Panic had a way of releasing the reins on the tangled web he called a thought process, which was not very conducive in high stress situations. He wondered if the pack was following the plan (they had a habit of  _ not _ following the plan when faced with the situation at hand, it was a problem they were working on). He wondered if all vampires were this psychopathic and skeevy or if he was just a bad egg who happened to like murdering pretty boys. He wondered where on the morbidity scale it landed that he had noted the attractiveness of the vampire’s victims. He wondered if Derek had always been scowly and emotionally repressed or if there was a time when he’d been open and happy. He’d been a teenager when everything happened, so it was possible that he’d been going through a phase of brooding angst and then just let grief and guilt set those habits into something that, on an adult Derek, came off as dangerous and violent. Which was an incredibly depressing thought to have. He wondered why he couldn’t stop thinking about Derek’s emotional wellbeing while he was running for his goddamn  _ life _ .

The next time Stiles tripped he wasn’t able to stop his fall and he hit the ground hard, sliding across the frost-bitten autumn leaves. The sound of glass breaking made his stomach drop nearly to his toes.

“Oh shit,” he managed to say, before an overwhelming chill swept through his bones, right down to the marrow. It was worse than anything he’d ever felt, worse than standing outside in the snow barefoot, colder than being trapped in a meat locker. It was like he’d stepped straight out of the forest into the void. There was no light, no warmth, no air. He tried to gasp, to move, to do or sense  _ anything _ other than that terrible, pure frozen panic, but there was nothing.

And then, suddenly, he was on his back, staring up at the branches of the trees swaying with the night breeze, occasionally revealing the star studded sky beyond. He sucked in a greedy breath and shivered violently. He rolled over with a groan, feeling heavy and lethargic, like his body was weighed down by lead. He maneuvered onto his side painfully, pushing up on his elbow to try and force himself upright. Everything felt... _ wrong _ . Like walking into a room and finding that everything has been shifted one inch to the left. Except, you know, far more sinister.

With a grunt of pain he pushed himself to his feet and swayed dangerously as his body protested its new position. He felt drained, like he sometimes did after a particularly grueling session with Maira where all he did was push his magic to its limits for hours on end. He looked around to get his bearings. They had been leading the murderous vampire to the edge of the Preserve, as far away from other humans as possible. It served a dual purpose: potentially minimize civilian casualties and potentially create a situation where if they couldn’t kill him, they could at least kick him off of Hale territory. Stiles even had an idea for how to make that exile stick, though he wasn’t one hundred percent certain it would work. Maira had been teaching him about wards and about how to capitalize on his connection to the land, so he was fairly confident he’d at least be able to hold the vampire off if the pack managed to push him out.

He breathed in the sharp, cold air, letting it slice down his throat into his lungs. For all that the temperature seemed to have dropped the later it got, it was still nowhere near the level of soul-crushing frigidity that he’d felt when he’d landed on those potions. He hoped that whatever they had done to him wouldn’t be permanent. He patted himself down, feeling for injuries or strange growths or missing limbs. Bits of broken glass had managed to stab him in the stomach and side, but it was nothing severe. He pulled up his hoodie and sweatshirt to try and look, wanting to make sure that traces of Deaton’s potions weren’t entering his bloodstream, but it was too dark to see anything. He pulled out the largest pieces by feel and resolved to remove the rest once he got home.

A twig broke to his left and he tensed, waiting for a rush of undead crazy to launch at him from the shadows. His magic told him that it was just a raccoon, though, nothing supernatural or undead about it. In fact, he couldn’t sense anything supernatural around him at all. A shiver of unease travelled up his spine. His mystical sixth sense wasn’t much stronger than his human ones, though, just different, and he wouldn’t be able to feel anything farther than perhaps half a mile away at best. His range was steadily improving from the days when he couldn’t sense anything beyond a two-foot perimeter around his person, but it was frustratingly slow going. Apparently, focus-related magics and ADHD did not blend well. Who knew.

He walked slowly toward where they were supposed to have laid the trap, pulling his magic forward to cloak his scent and the sounds of his movements. For some reason, the use of his magic was exhausting, far more than it should be for such simple tasks. It felt like it pulled on the very marrow of his bones, drawing an ache so tangible he could taste it in his mouth, like copper and electricity. He pushed on, trying desperately to find his pack. Had he gotten lost somehow? He didn’t think so, but to be fair, his sense of direction had only improved marginally since becoming a mage. Mage-in-training. Whatever. He was only able to hold the cloaking spell for a few more minutes before he had to drop it, panting so hard he felt like Scott before he became a werewolf and still had asthma attacks. Still, he pushed on, breathing heavily, until he reached the small clearing the pack had scoped out last week. It was clearly marked by the claw marks scratched into four well-placed trees about seven feet off the ground. High enough to not easily be noticed, but not hidden either. 

And yet, he was alone. There were no wolves, no vampires, no banshee, no kitsune. Nothing but the soft hoot of an owl and his still too-harsh breaths. He waited for thirty minutes, just in case anyone showed up, but the forest was silent beyond the normal sounds of nocturnal animal life. He finally pulled out his phone, hoping that whoever he called wasn’t in a situation where their phone going off would bring them unwanted, deadly attention.

“Ugh,” he groaned, tossing his head back to look at the sky, “of course. Because why not.” His phone was shattered. It wouldn’t even turn on. Useless, fucking touchscreen piece of fragile glass and silicon! For a moment he was so caught up in his situation, being left alone at the edge of the pack’s territory in the freezing cold, covered in bruises and spilt potions, with a broken phone, that he considered flinging the worthless rectangle in his hand at the nearest tree. It wouldn’t help though and it would just make him feel more pathetic so he refrained. Barely.

With a heaved sigh he started walking home. With any luck, he’d get in just as his dad was leaving for work and he’d be able to slip in without being seen to avoid giving his father the run-down of their failed operation. He really just wanted to get home and shower and then climb into bed and sleep for a minimum of twelve solid hours before waking up and eating a meal to rival that of a wolf’s. 

Being on the edge of the Preserve, however, meant that he was miles from anything resembling civilization. He was miles even from the old Hale house, which was saying something. He was heading in the opposite direction, though, trying to find the service road where he’d left his Jeep. It wasn’t until the sun started to peek over the horizon that he finally reached the place where he’d left his baby. Except there was no sign of Roscoe. He couldn’t even see tire tracks from where he came in or where someone would have had to drive off with it.

Unease swept through him again, stronger this time, and he looked around warily. The hairs on the back of his neck were raised and he felt a chill travel down his spine. He couldn’t see anything, even with the added light of dawn, and he sensed nothing out of place around him. 

Still, “I’ve got a feeling I’m not in Kansas anymore,” he muttered to himself, rubbing his arms. With a lack of any better options, Stiles started walking back to town. His mind whirred as he walked, examining his situation. No phone, no car, no pack. Strange, undefinable anxiety that seemed magic related. Zero energy, weak Spark, no potions or weapons of any kind. All in all, the odds did not seem to be in his favor.

Worst of all, even after walking nearly two hours to the service road, he was still at least five miles from the nearest gas station. Six from the closest neighborhood. Probably about fifteen from his house. Granted, he’d been walking like a zombie to get this far, which is why it took so damn long, but he didn’t think he’d be gaining speed any time soon. In fact, every step felt like a battle, like dragging his feet through thick mud. He grit his teeth and kept going. The sun was rising in earnest now, its light filtering through the nearly bare branches of the deciduous trees going into hibernation. He had been following the road for a while, but it was faster to cut through the trees and forge a straight path rather than follow the meandering, serpentine tire tracks cut through the forest. Plus, if he headed southwest, he would be close enough to stop at the Hale house and check if any of the pack had ended up there after last night. He didn’t think the probability of any of them actually being there was very high, even Derek, but he was starting to become a bit loopy with exhaustion and the sharp edge of desperation made him want to seek out the closest possible familiar place.

He wasn’t far from the Hale house, maybe another half hour of slow trudging, when his legs just...stopped working. He fell to his knees among gnarled roots and slid his hand down the bark of the nearest tree to try to slow his descent. The rough material tore at his palms, but didn’t quite break the skin. He knelt on the cold ground, panting, and tried to find the strength to stand. It didn’t come. Instead, he felt the iron weight of his bones pulling him down further. The darkness swept in like a gentle storm, fast and heavy and painless. He curled into himself at the base of the tree and closed his eyes.


	2. Mother and Alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up in the last place he ever expected to be

_A wolf howled, long and mournful. Stiles looked around, his breath coming in visible puffs on the frosty air as he searched for fur and fangs and sad eyes, but he saw only the swaying green limbs of evergreen trees in the wind. Snow started to fall and he looked up at the white sky, blinking, before he fell backwards to land softly on a familiar bed. He blinked again and the soft white of the sky solidified into his bedroom ceiling with its neon green glow in the dark stars. He watched as a nebula formed in the space between his outstretched hand and the plastic stars, mesmerized as it roiled and burned in fast forward to birth a star, a real one, right into his bedroom. The star burned white hot against his skin, so bright and painful that his nerves couldn’t compute. He twisted away desperately, crying out. A dark skinned man in the corner watched calmly as he writhed and said, “_ We begin in the dark, and birth is the death of us.” _Stiles screamed as the fire sunk into his skin, his soul, and fell once more into the darkness. The scene shifted again, and this time there was no burning agony, only the salty sweet scent of popcorn and the feel of body-warm leather under his fingertips. The images started to come faster then, fragmenting into snatches of perception:_ _the scent of chlorine, the jolt of electricity against his skin, the feel of a wall pressed against his back, the rattle of chains in a dark basement, sharp teeth in a gentle smile, red blood on tile, the snarls of wolves circling closer and closer until their teeth snap_ -

Stiles woke with a gasp, sitting upright in a motion that was far too quick for his weakened body to handle. He groaned as the world spun dizzily and swallowed against the rising bile. His magic was a flickering candle within his chest, not nearly recovered but leagues better than before he’d lost consciousness. He blinked against the brightness and looked around, confused. He was no longer lying on dirt and roots. Instead, his hand sunk into the cushion of a soft couch where he leaned to the left to catch his balance. He blinked again, wondering if this was a mirage of some sort, or a hallucination, but the couch remained, along with the crocheted blanket over his legs and the pillow with its navy blue cover. 

“I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

Stiles startled and looked up. The woman who spoke shouldn’t have been physically intimidating. She was only about 5’5” and slender, yet, even knelt by his side with an expression he could only classify as concerned, she held herself like a warrior. Her dark eyes were full of sympathy, yet still suspicious, and Stiles felt the weight of her authority almost like a physical force. Without thinking, he bared his neck to her in lupine submission, swallowing a whine. He’d never been a wolf, but living with them and being part of a pack made a lot of those same instincts and behaviors second nature. Derek had once told him he acted more like a wolf than some of the bitten betas.

Stiles heard her sharp intake of breath, as well as the gasp of two other people in the room. He didn’t relinquish his submissive position, however, knowing that doing so now would be an offense. He waited patiently. After a pause, long, slender fingers touched the side of his neck gently in acknowledgement. He raised his head then and looked around at the others he hadn’t had time to notice before the Alpha had taken up all of his attention.

A young man with long, lean legs was sitting on an armchair across from him, watching him warily. Stiles stared at him for a moment, taking him in. He had thick, black hair and eyes that were so dark green Stiles wasn’t sure they were a natural color. He wondered if the man wore contacts. There was something familiar about him, though, something about the slope of his nose or the angle of his jaw that Stiles couldn’t put his finger on. The almost recognition was like an itch under his skin and made him uncomfortable.

Another man, older than the first, was sitting on the loveseat. His posture was far more relaxed than the other’s, though there was still an undercurrent of tension that belied the seriousness of the situation. Even sitting, Stiles could tell that he was tall, built almost like a Viking with broad shoulders and a square jaw. His eyes were light blue, almost like ice, yet full of warmth. There were laugh lines beside his eyes and mouth that made Stiles instantly like him.

“First, I’d like to assure you that you are safe here,” the Alpha said, drawing his attention back to her. When he looked, he saw what he hadn’t at first glance. The young man sitting in the armchair was clearly the son of the Alpha and the Viking. The features were too similar and the ages made sense.

“Where is here?” he asked. His throat felt raw, like a freshly healed wound. His whole body felt like that, the pink, sensitive new skin under a scab. He fought off a wince with every movement.

“You are in my home. My name is Talia Hale. This is my husband, Ronan, and my son, Julian,” she said gesturing to each in turn. “You were in pretty bad shape when we found you last night. It was lucky we found you when we did, or else you might have frozen to death.”

Stiles jolted. Talia Hale? He felt his brain short circuit and then switch into overdrive. It couldn’t be. He knew that his life was full of impossible things, things that most people regarded as fantasy or fairy tales or horror stories, but this felt like a step too far. Several steps too far, in fact. Because Talia Hale was dead. She’d died seven years ago and the last time he’d been to the Hale house it had been ninety percent charred wood and ten percent ghosts. It couldn’t be her because if it was, that meant that something was wrong. So astronomically not-right that Stiles had no idea how to quantify it. His brain started pulling up his archived files on ghosts, alternate dimensions, time travel, hallucinations, coma dreams, anything and everything that could be relevant. It was too much, too many possibilities, and he just wanted to make it stop. He felt his breath coming faster and tried to calm it, but his panic was a whirlwind now and he had no magic to hold onto like a lifeline. There was only that flickering candle and his tunneling vision and the creak of his ribs as they tried to keep up with his lungs.

Someone touched his shoulder and he flinched away so hard he ended up against the arm of the couch. He huddled into himself and willed himself desperately to calm the fuck down. Having a panic attack was not helpful to the situation. He tried to remember his dad’s voice, talking him through one of the many attacks he’d had in middle school. He closed his eyes. He remembered the last time he’d had a panic attack, when Maira had told him about how to connect with the elemental side of his magic, how to sink its roots down into the ground and feel the solidity of the earth, know the memory held in rainwater, hear the wind whisper secrets against his skin. He had calmed eventually, listening. 

When his breath evened out, he risked opening his eyes and he saw that Julian and the other man had left, leaving only Talia. She was still knelt in front of him, her face calm and unruffled. She was close enough to reach out if she had to but far enough not to crowd him.

“Is there anyone I can call for you?” Talia asked. Her voice was soft now, motherly, with no trace of Alpha authority. He shook his head mutely. If he was right, and he wasn’t sure why but he  _ knew _ he was, then there was no one to call because everyone on his speed dial was seven years in the future, unreachable by phone.

“Alright,” she said gently. “Can you tell me your name?”

Stiles blinked at her. He couldn’t tell her his real name, since the real Mieczysław Stillinski still existed in this time, as far as he knew, and he wasn’t sure exactly what the date was. Stiles had started using his nickname soon after his mother’s death, but he had no idea if that had happened yet or not. He racked his brain for names, but of course, since needed one, he couldn’t think of a single name. Stiles was pretty sure his brain was still rebooting from the full body shut down he’d experienced. When in doubt, try turning off and turning it back on again. Finally, a distant cousin popped into his head, for reasons unknown, and he blurted, “Kazimierz.”

Talia raised an eyebrow. Stiles wondered if eyebrow raising was a family skill. Like an inherited trait.

“But everyone calls me Kazik,” he added. “It’s easier.”

Talia held his gaze steadily. “Okay, Kazik.” He hoped his heart had been beating too erratically for her to tell that he was lying about his name. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

Stiles shook his head. He didn’t have a good explanation, first of all, and secondly, he actually  _ didn’t _ know what had happened to him. He remembered the vampire, the trap, running through the woods, falling. He had no idea how he could have time traveled nearly a decade at any point during those events.

Talia frowned at him. “We found you on our property, not far from the house. You were unconscious, clearly exhausted and half frozen. We brought you in and removed the glass from your side. You’ve been sleeping for about six hours.”

Until then, Stiles hadn’t even noticed that his sweatshirt was missing and that the t-shirt he was wearing wasn’t his own. He lifted the edge of the shirt to see the bandages on his side and lower abdomen, clean and neatly taped. He thanked her earnestly. He knew how werewolves felt about strangers in their territory and yet not only had Talia not been angry at his presence, she had given him first aid and allowed him to sleep in her house. He didn’t know what to make of her kindness.

“You’re welcome, little spark.” Ah, so she did know what he was. Although it sounded like she didn’t know he was more powerful than just a spark. “Are you sure you remember nothing about how you came to be on my territory, injured and half-dead?”

Half-dead seemed to be an exaggeration, in his opinion, but he didn’t correct her. He cast about for how best to answer her, taking in the details of the room while he thought. He was fairly certain the room he was in was a living room, based on the amount of seating and the large, bulky TV sitting on a stand filled with DVDs and video games. He was almost shocked at how the TV seemed to be at least a decade out of style, until he remembered that it  _ was _ and had to mentally stumble past that information. The windows behind him were the source of the brightness that he’d experienced when he first woke. They were expansive, taking up nearly the whole wall, clearly designed to let in every drop of sunlight available. Behind the armchair where Julian had sat was a row of bookshelves, filled with a mix of books, knickknacks, and framed photographs. He noticed that the lower shelves seemed primarily comprised of children’s books and figurines of cartoon characters. A basket on the lowest shelf overflowed slightly with toys. 

Everything about the room tugged at his chest painfully. It was so full of evidence of the many lives that passed through it, from the worn covers of the books on the shelves, to the indents left on what were clearly people’s favorite seats. A toy robot had been left in the corner of the room, not put away, standing silent sentinel over Stiles’ strange morning.

He looked back at Talia. “It’s mostly fragments,” he admitted. “I remember running through the woods. I fell at one point and I think I hit my head. When I woke up, I was trying to get back to town, but I didn’t make it.”

It was the truth, carefully edited and full of enough omissions to let Talia make her own conclusions. He could easily riff off of her from there.

“You were running from someone? Something, maybe?”

He hesitated. If he said yes, she would think there was a threat to her pack. The vampire wouldn’t come to Beacon Hills for several years, meaning he wouldn’t be a problem for them. Then again, the Hale pack was threatened, wasn’t it? It wouldn’t hurt to warn them, in a roundabout way.

“Hunters.”

She reared back slightly. “Hunters? Why would they be after you?’

Stiles couldn’t help the sneer that came over his face. “Because the hunter code is bullshit and even then, not all hunters actually follow it. They don’t care that I’ve never done anything wrong or that I’m technically human or that I’m seventeen. All they see is that I’m dangerous and need to be put down, same as the rest of my pack.”

Talia looked horrified, but was trying to regain her composure. Stiles guessed that she hadn’t come across too many bloodthirsty hunters. He was glad of that, though he did need her to believe him. She shook her head quickly, but he was glad to see that her expression wasn’t that of disbelief.

“I’m truly sorry, Kazik. The rest of your pack...are they-?”

Stiles looked away. He hadn’t considered the fact that here, his pack didn’t exist. His magic had been steadily gaining strength the longer he’d been awake, growing from that flickering candle flame into a small fire and with it he poked at the packbonds. Or rather, he poked at where the packbonds used to be. Instead, he found only a handful of gaping wounds, like a mouthful of missing teeth, sore and bloody and empty. He placed his palm flat against his chest, putting pressure to stem the tide of pain, but he couldn’t stop poking at the empty places. He was alone here. He couldn’t even go to his dad, whose time would be overfull with his younger self and either his sick wife or the grief of her absence. Stiles was glad he hadn’t thought about the implications of his situation before this moment because the agony was unbearable. 

Talia’s hand settled gently on his forearm. “Alright. Let’s get you cleaned up and fed and we’ll talk some more, okay?” She gestured for him to stand and he obeyed with shaky legs. Her hand was a comforting pressure against his back, but still, he wished for a pack puppy pile, for the weight and heat of half a dozen werewolves to anchor him. Without them, he felt unmoored. It ached.

Talia guided him through the house to one of the upstairs bathrooms. She pulled a towel out of the closet and handed it to him before briefly showing him how to work the shower. She pulled an unopened toothbrush out of a drawer and set it on the sink.

“I’ll get you some clean clothes to borrow. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Stiles blurted. He was standing in the middle of the bathroom, the towel she’d handed him clutched to his chest. His socked toes scrunched against the tiny, colorful tiles beneath his feet.

She regarded him seriously for a moment. “I may be the Alpha of this pack, but I am also a mother. You are the same age as my son. When we found you, you did not seem malicious, just...lost. You seem far too young to have experienced so much and I think you could use some kindness.”

He felt a lump form in his throat and nodded in lieu of trying to speak. Lost. That was a very good way to summarize what he was right now. Once Talia shut the door behind her, Stiles pulled off his dirt stained clothes and tossed them in a pile. He set the towel down on the lid of the toilet and started the hot water as he’d been instructed. The shower felt incredible, better than he would have expected even knowing the magic of a good, boiling hot shower. He wasn’t sure if it was the water pressure or simply the fact that his muscles were so sore that the relief was nearly orgasmic, but it was quite possibly the best shower he’d ever had.

He dried off and had just put the towel around his waist when the door opened, revealing Julian. He had a pile of clothes in his hands, a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the looks of it. They stared at each other for a moment, both caught off guard, though Stiles had no idea why Julian would be feeling that way since he was a werewolf and could obviously hear that Stiles was out of the shower and semi-decent before he barged in.

“Uh, sorry, my mom...she said to bring you these?” His voice rose at the end to make it into a question. Stiles’ eyebrows rose. 

“Thanks, man.” Stiles reached out for the clothes and Julian seemed to shake himself out of whatever stupor he’d been in to relinquish them. He didn’t know why Julian seemed to just be staring at him.

“I can take those,” Julian said suddenly. He was pointing to the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. “We can wash them for you and give them back.”

“Oh, sweet. Thanks, yeah.” Stiles turned and picked up the pile, making sure to keep the towel in place with one hand. Julian took them from him carefully. There was an awkward moment where neither of them moved.

“I don’t mean to be, you know, insensitive or whatever,” Julian started, and Stiles’ brow furrowed in confusion, “but what the hell happened to you?”

That was when Stiles realized what Julian was staring at. The scars. “Oh!” Stiles blurted, understanding dawning. “Oh, you mean all of these?” He gestured to his torso like a game show host showing off a prize. “Well, you know, this and that, really. This one is from a wendigo. That one was a faerie. You’d think they’d be cute, but you’d be very, very wrong. They are actually the worst. I think I prefer fighting trolls, if I’m being honest, smell and all. This one over here is from an arrow. I really expected more gratitude from D- from my Alpha for that one, but hey, it’s cool. This one is actually just dumb. I got it from being thrown into a tree branch of all things. I know I’m not as beefy as all you werewolves but I’m not light, okay! Why supes keep throwing me around like a freaking ragdoll, I have no idea but I’m not a fan, just for the record. Let’s see, um, this one, I know it’s kinda small but it actually hurt like a  _ bitch _ . It’s kind of a funny story really, so -”

“What the fuck.”

Stiles looked up to see Julian staring at him with wide, horrified eyes. “What?”

“All of that...happened to you? How can you just..?”

“Yeah man. Do you guys not act as, like, the local supernatural police? I mean, I get that we’re not the best at it because we’re young and dumb but we’re getting better!”

Julian opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally saying, “We, well, I mean we get things coming through here sometimes but usually my mom just takes care of it. No one really gets hurt.”

“Oh. Wow.” Stiles blinked. “I literally can’t imagine.”

“Yeah, I picked up on that,” Julian replied dryly. He was still staring at Stiles like he was some sort of alien. “Right, well, I’ll just let you…” Julian cleared his throat and made a vague hand gesture that Stiles took to mean ‘get dressed and make yourself decent.’ “Mom wants you to come down to the kitchen when you’re done. It’s downstairs to the right.”

“No problem.”

Julian nodded once, then exited hastily. Stiles shook his head and got dressed, still mulling over the concept of living a life where nothing terribly lethal happened and adults could be counted on to step in and handle it when things went wrong. Like he’d told Julian, he simply couldn’t imagine it. He pulled on the borrowed shirt, breathing deeply as he did so. The clothes smelled nice, like laundry detergent, but also like something familiar. He wondered if these were Derek’s clothes. It would probably make more sense than borrowing Julian’s, since Julian was about half a foot taller than him while he and Derek were almost of a height. 

Stiles examined his reflection while he brushed his teeth. He looked normal. His cheekbones were more prominent than they had been a year ago, though he wasn’t sure if that was because he’d matured enough to lose the baby fat or because constantly running for his life made him tone up and cut weight. Deep shadows under his eyes showed how much sleep he’d been losing lately. His hair was longer than a year ago too, no longer a buzz cut but rather long enough to run his fingers through it and mess with the slight curl. Lydia had been begging him to let her style it for months. He hadn’t yet caved.

The t-shirt was loose on him, the way he usually wore his clothes, and hid how much muscle he’d gained over the past few months. Between running with Derek and training with Maira, Stiles was stronger than he’d ever been. He didn’t feel like the scrawny high schooler he’d been when all of this first started any more. He felt like something...more. Stiles spat toothpaste into the sink and rinsed his mouth and the toothbrush before going down to the kitchen.

Talia was preparing tea, pouring hot water into several cups lined up on the counter. Julian was leaning against the fridge, still looking somewhat upset from their conversation in the bathroom. Ronan, who Stiles realized with a jolt must be Derek’s dad, though he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t put those pieces together before, was there too. He was pulling out sugar, honey, and milk for people to add to their tea as they wished. A teenage girl stood in the middle of the room, her long black hair flowing around her shoulders and she stared at him with an intensity that reminded him, achingly, of Derek. He let her look and didn’t back down until she relaxed her shoulders with a satisfied nod. Were all Hales as strange as the ones he’d met? 

“Satisfied, Laura?” Ronan asked. His tone was slightly teasing, his body relaxed where he was now leaning against the counter. 

Laura rolled her eyes but it was clear that the answer was yes. Stiles, meanwhile, tried to grasp the reins on his emotions. Laura Hale. The first, last, and only time he’d ever seen her in person was when he’d dug up half of her body in the backyard of this very house. The memory made him cringe for a multitude of reasons, not least of which was the fact that Derek had just personally buried the remains of the last member of his family and Scott and Stiles had dug her up thinking Derek was a serial killer. As far as misunderstandings go, that one was beyond the pale. 

“Let’s sit down,” Talia suggested once they’d all gotten their tea. They moved to the dining room table, with Talia at the head, and Stiles sat at her left, cradling his mug between his hands. He had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t going to like the impending conversation.

“Kazimierz,” Talia began, and Stiles was right, he wasn’t going to like this (though he was impressed she had remembered the full name he had given her), “I know that what happened to you was likely traumatic, but we need to understand the situation.”

Stiles nodded. “Of course. You need to be prepared in case those hunters come here.”

“What hunters?” interjected Laura. Clearly, she hadn’t yet been filled in.

“The hunters who came after me and my pack.” Stiles met her eyes evenly. He wanted them all to understand the gravity of the situation, to fear for their own safety. Maybe then they would take precautions and do what was needed to keep themselves safe.

“Who were they?” Talia asked. The edges of her voice were steel.

“Gerard and Kate Argent.”

“Argent?” Ronan’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “They are a well-respected family. Why would they betray the code?”

“Because Gerard is a bloodthirsty psychopath who believes that all non-humans are evil and need to be put down like dogs. And he brainwashed his daughter Kate to be even worse.”

“Worse?” Julian asked tentatively. He’d been sitting quietly to the side, unobtrusively, and Stiles had nearly forgotten he was there. Stiles wondered how he got the privilege of being part of this conversation. Talia was the Alpha, Ronan was the Alpha-Mate, and Laura was the Alpha-Successor. He didn’t think Julian was Talia’s Second, just by their dynamic and his personality, but perhaps he was training to be Laura’s?

“She seduces a member of the pack, pretending to be someone else, and gains information that she later uses to destroy them.”

“And was that person from your pack...you?” Talia asked carefully.

Stiles shook his head. “No, but he was underage. Younger than me, even. So keep an eye on your pups. She has no morals. I don’t think she even has a soul.”

All four werewolves looked like they might be sick. Stiles could sympathize. When he’d first learned of what Kate had done to Derek, he’d felt nausea rise in him so strongly he’d had to leave the room. After there was nothing left in his stomach, all he was left with was an incandescent rage so blinding it left him dizzy. He wondered if he could get away with just killing her.

“Thank you. For this information and the warning,” Talia said formally. It was clear that she was still reeling from the bomb he’d dropped on them.

“Forewarned is forearmed,” he replied with a small smile. 

She managed to return it. “Yes, that is one of Peter’s favorite phrases. He’s my brother and my Second.”

Stiles did his best to hide his surprise. Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense for Peter to be Talia’s enforcer. He just hadn’t been expecting it. “Where is he?” Stiles asked, as casually as possible.

“He’s on an errand for me, out of town. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

Ah, a mysterious out of town errand. That didn’t sound mafia-ish at all. Stiles nodded nonchalantly, trying not to envision Peter coated in blood, burying a body in an unmarked grave in the woods. 

“So where is your pack now?” Laura asked. Her fingers were laced on the table in front of her, clenched tightly as though she already suspected the answer.

Stiles examined the grain of the wood beneath his fingers. He couldn’t say that his pack was dead. It would be a lie, first of all, since the last time he’d seen them they’d all been alive and well and eager for battle. He rubbed a hand over his sternum, feeling the empty places where each of them was supposed to be. He knew that all of them were alive in this time, but the bonds weren’t there. Derek, Scott, Erica, Boyd, Jackson, Lydia, Kira,  _ his dad _ . He couldn’t feel any of them. The grief was as poignant as though they  _ had _ died and his mind shied violently away from putting that thought into words.

He supposed he’d been silent long enough to allow the others to infer their own answer. “Oh,” Laura said faintly.

Stiles didn’t look up, but he pressed harder against his chest, trying to put pressure on the wound, slow the hemorrhaging. 

Talia straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “The rest of the pack will be arriving home in a few hours. I would like to offer my home as temporary refuge until you find a new pack to join. I can help you with this; I have contacts nationwide and we can find a pack that has a need for an Emissary, one that best suits your needs and personality.”

She was pragmatic, determined, endlessly kind, yet just the idea of finding a new pack caused pain to lance through him like a sword through his heart. Talia must have seen this on his face because her expression softened and her hand reached over to grip his forearm lightly.

“It’ll probably take some time to find the right fit. You’re more than welcome to stay here until then. We have the room and it’s no burden. My son, Derek, is your age. He’s sixteen. We can get you enrolled in the local high school and he can help you get up to speed. You won’t be alone, Kazik.”

He appreciated that she didn’t try to say ‘it’ll be alright’ or some similar platitude that everyone usually said in this type of situation. Instead, her heartfelt promise that he wouldn’t be left alone to flounder in this strange time, with his grief and confusion, settled that fluttering fear inside him, letting him sink back into his own body and breathe again. 

“Thank you, Alpha Hale,” he said, pouring as much sincerity into the words as he could. He blinked past the tears in his eyes.

“You’re welcome, little spark.”

His mouth twisted a little. He felt like he owed them at least this amount of truth. “Actually, you should probably know. I’m a mage. Well, mage-in-training. My magic is still healing, so that’s probably why you can’t really sense it.”

Talia’s eyebrows rose, but she didn’t recoil from him or otherwise seem offended, which was a good sign. “You must have used quite a bit of magic to drain yourself so thoroughly.”

Stiles frowned. He hadn’t really thought about why his magic was so weak. He assumed it had something to do with why he was here, but he wasn’t sure if it was because his magic had fought against whatever had dragged him across the spacetime continuum or if it was for some other reason.

“I would do anything to try to protect my pack,” he said evasively. He had learned the art of lying without lying. The trick was to tell irrelevant truths, or partial truths. In this case, he absolutely would do anything to protect his pack. He was known to go slightly feral if any one of them was in danger, had gained himself a bit of a reputation for it in the past few months to be honest. Just three weeks ago, during a fight against a rather obstinate herd of centaurs, Jackson had been injured. A male centaur had thrown the wolf at least twenty feet, managing to impale him on the branch of a tree, and Stiles had frozen where he stood, sequestered to the side as per Derek’s instructions. Stiles still didn’t use magic very often around the pack and never to his full strength, since he wanted to be sure that he knew what he was doing before he asked Derek permission to be his Emissary, but at that moment he didn’t care. He couldn’t think past the red haze across his vision as he saw his packmate choking on his own blood. 

_ “How dare you?” Stiles had growled. He stalked forward, brushing past Erica, who was battling two centaurs at once. As he passed, one of the centaurs fell screaming, a haunting half-human, half-animal sound. A mare tried to attack him with a spear as he approached the centaur who threw Jackson, but he flicked his wrist and tossed her aside, maintaining eye contact with his target. His prey neighed wildly, backing up and rearing on two legs to kick at him with sharp hooves. _

_ “You shouldn’t have hurt my pack,” Stiles told him. He breathed in deep and heard Maira’s voice in his head.  _ Your magic is elemental, instinctive. Wild. Don’t fight its nature. When you want the earth to respond to you, talk to it. It will understand.  _ He exhaled. ‘Help me,’ he asked the trees. They listened. _

Talia squeezed his arm one more time before letting go. “Of course. I’m sure you did all you could,” she assured him. Stiles still wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve her kindness. He’d known she was an amazing woman from the precious few stories he’d managed to get out of Derek, and from the fact that she’d been the Alpha of the famous Hale Pack of Beacon Hills, but her ability to balance generosity, compassion, strength, and authority was just...breathtaking, honestly. He was concerned, however, with how quickly she brought him in and trusted him, despite not knowing him at all. Wasn’t that dangerous? What if he was a hunter or something? Shouldn’t she have vetted him first, maybe interrogated him in a creepy warehouse away from her family before allowing him into her home? He felt like that was standard operating procedure. Then again, his life was far from standard so perhaps his perception was a little skewed.

“Come,” she said, standing. “I’m sure you are still exhausted from all that has happened. Laura can show you to one of our guest rooms and you can rest until everyone else comes home.”

Stiles followed Laura up the carpeted stairs, trying desperately to process everything that had happened. He still wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t some sort of elaborate dream or hallucination of some sort, but he couldn’t deny the heavy feeling of reality to it all. He could feel the thick fibers of the carpet under his bare toes, since he hadn’t been given new socks to borrow, and he could see where the edges were starting to fray on some of the steps. The banister was worn soft under his hand from so many palms sliding across it over the years, the wood paler in the middle than along the edges. The wall was lined with photographs all the way to the top of the whole family, ranging in age and location, all so full of happy memories and laughter. It seemed that the Hales preferred candid photographs; there wasn’t a single posed photo that he could see. It made everything seem so much more lively and natural. His heart ached fiercely.

“So why aren’t you at school?” Stiles asked, distracting himself. It had been Tuesday night for him in the future, meaning that if time was working on a direct correlation, it was now Wednesday. He had no idea, though, if that was how this worked.

“I’m training to be Alpha,” she informed him primly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I needed to be here to debrief you and make sure you weren’t a threat. So mom let me stay home from school.”

The last sentence undermined her speech slightly, but Stiles decided to indulge her. “I see. It’s cool that you get special privileges like that.”

“It’s a responsibility,” she corrected. “I still have to keep up with my schoolwork and make up the AP Gov test I was supposed to take today. So thanks for that.”

“Hey, you get an extra day to study. You should be thanking me.”

“Thank you,” she said sarcastically, opening the door to a generically decorated room. It was clean, with a large window facing the back yard, and light blue walls that caught the light and made the whole space seem soft and calm like the surface of the sea. He loved it immediately. He stepped past Laura and sat on the fluffy queen sized bed, sinking into the grey-blue comforter.

“Oh, wow,” he said, flopping backwards. “I’m going to marry this bed. We’re going to honeymoon in Hawaii. It’s going to be great.”

Laura let out a surprised bark of laughter. “I’m glad you like it. Someone will come get you when it’s time for dinner. If you need anything, just come down to the kitchen; someone’s always in there.”

He gave an unintelligible noise of assent and he rolled over to snuggle deeper into the heaven that was this bed. Seriously, it was the softest thing he’d ever experienced. Like it was made out of clouds. Or chinchilla fur. Or marshmallows. He kept listing soft things until he drifted off to sleep, wrapped in the comforter like a burrito, the sunlight warming his back like a contented cat.


	3. The Meaning of Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek! and Peter! research! oh my

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know that in the show Peter isn't that much older than Derek in the flashbacks (or he doesn't seem to be? he's very baby faced) but here he's around early 30s. Also, I imagine him as a sort of stereotypical mafia character. Loving, family-oriented, brutal, not at all afraid to get his hands dirty. Knows where the bodies are buried.
> 
> Niamh is pronounced Neeve, just so y'all know because Celtic spellings are jank
> 
> Warnings: Gerard and Kate are discussed in this chapter, along with their past and future crimes. They are terrible people, as you are aware. They may be even more terrible in this story than you are familiar with. Violence is described.
> 
> Will I ever learn to shorten these chapters? Probably not. Thank you for your time.

Stiles woke up with a start to a sharp, unidentifiable sound. He felt his heart start to pound in his chest. His body was too hot, sweaty and uncomfortable, and when he tried to move his limbs he found that he couldn’t. His breath started to come more sharply then. He  _ hated _ being kidnapped. It had only happened twice after Gerard, but honestly, three kidnappings by the age of seventeen really seemed excessive in his opinion. It wasn’t like he got a punch card where his fifth kidnapping came with a free pizza.

He struggled against the bonds holding his arms and legs. It felt like whatever they’d used was wrapped around his whole body, locking him down tight. He couldn’t see anything, but he wasn’t blindfolded. It was just dark and his human eyes weren’t made for low light situations. He worked on controlling his breath as much as he could as he wriggled and kicked and shoved and generally did everything he could to free himself. He hadn’t heard the noise that had woken him since the first time, couldn’t hear anything past the rushing of his frantic heartbeat, so he just kept struggling in the hopes that he could at least get his arms free before his captors came in.

“Hey, hey,” a quasi-familiar voice said gently. Large, soft hands started pulling the blanket away from his body, because  _ that’s _ what was trapping him, not ropes, and soon he was free. He gasped in the fresh air beyond the thick comforter and flopped exhaustedly onto the sheets. Under his lashes, he could see where the soft yellow light from the hall was now pouring into the room from the open door, illuminating the light blue of the walls, the white trimmed edges of the huge window behind him, the white desk in the corner. His heart rate calmed. His breathing slowed. 

The Hale house. Of course. He’d taken a nap before dinner and must have trapped himself in that behemoth of a comforter because it was just so damn comfortable. It probably didn’t help that he’d been dreaming about one of those memorable kidnapping occasions at the time he’d regained consciousness.

“Thanks,” he muttered, not yet looking at his savior. He needed a moment to get over his embarrassment. “Death by killer blanket is not how I wanted to go out. I fully expect it to be something epic, like an aswang or a zilant. I mean, it’s just not fair otherwise, you know?” He turned his head lazily and glanced up. His breath caught in his throat. Standing in the golden glow of hall light was the last person he was prepared to see at the moment.

Derek Hale at sixteen was baby faced and innocent in a way his older self could never emulate in a thousand years. Stiles felt like he’d been sucker punched, looking at him now. There was already something solemn in his eyes, no doubt from the grief and guilt of Paige’s death, but there was still a confidence, a loose kind of arrogance in the set of his shoulders that was glaringly obvious in contrast with the way his older self hunched and held himself so tightly wound that any sudden movement would set him off. Stiles couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, for a long moment, just staring. He felt his fingers twitch, wanting, in a fit of insanity perhaps, to reach out and touch him, make sure that the Derek he was seeing in front of him was real.

“I have no idea what either of those are,” Derek said, looking a little thrown, “but I’m glad I could save you from the evil covers.” His tone turned teasing and now it was Stiles’ turn to feel off balance. Derek reached out his hand to pull Stiles to his feet and it took Stiles an embarrassing moment to realize that he was supposed to take it. Once he did, he couldn’t help but revel in the smooth slide of skin against his own calloused palm. He was real. He wasn’t a mirage. Stiles felt like he couldn’t stop staring.

“Are you alright?” Derek asked, and he sounded so genuinely concerned that Stiles again felt like the carpet had been pulled from right under his feet. 

“Y-yeah. Just, you know, not sure I’m not still dreaming.” He felt himself blush to the roots of his hair. Smooth, Stiles.

Derek grinned, shark-like. “You’re not. Trust me.” Stiles felt his heart flutter in his chest. He noticed that Derek was still holding his hand. “Come on, everyone’s waiting downstairs.”

He let Derek pull him down the hall.

“A zilant, by the way,” he explained, to cover how hard his heart was hammering in his chest at the fact that Derek  _ still had not let go of his hand _ , “is a winged serpent. Think of a cross between a dragon and a wyvern, but like, with the legs of a giant chicken.”

“That doesn’t sound real,” Derek protested.

“It is, I assure you.” Stiles knew. He’d seen one up close and personal. “They’ve got dark grey feathers and scaly, grey skin. Wings as red as your mom’s eyes.”

“And the aswang?” Derek asked, as they started down the stairs.

“Oh, well, there’s actually several different types of aswang. They’re a type of shape-shifter. Basically there’s the vampire, the viscera sucker - which, there really needs to be a better name for that one because, gross - the weredog - not to be confused with werewolves, obviously - the witch, and the ghoul. I’ve only ever seen a witch aswang in person, but I can attest that they are creepy as hell. The  _ eyes _ , man. The eyes.” Stiles shuddered.

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“I am the master of research, dude. It’s what I  _ do _ .” He ignored the tiny butterflies in his stomach at the way Derek smiled at him. It was so much more genuine than anything he’d ever experienced from him in the future. He wondered if Derek, his Derek, actually did find him amusing but suppressed it because he didn’t allow himself to relax like a normal person. The tentative bubble of happiness in his chest diminished at the thought.

Derek let go of him just before they entered the dining room and Stiles tried not to be disappointed by that. It was strange enough that it seemed like Derek had almost been  _ flirting  _ with him. He couldn’t let himself hope for anything more.

The Hale pack wasn’t as huge as Stiles had expected. Then again, the only reason Kate had managed to kill as many as she had was because they were having a family reunion. Still, Stiles found himself introduced to Derek’s sister Cora, ironically, given how well he knew her in the future, as well as Ronan’s sister Niamh, Peter’s wife Nora, and his two-year-old twins, Marcus and Aurelia.

“I have to ask. Is she named Aurelia after Julius Caesar’s mother or because it’s a play on Marcus Aurelius because they’re twins?”

Nora grinned. “A bit of both,” she admitted. “Aurelia was well respected in her own right. She was intelligent, independent, strong. It’s a good name to have for that reason alone. But yes, the play on words is also gratifying.”

Stiles shook his head, laughing a little, and continued filling his plate. The food was delicious. Apparently, Ronan was the usual family chef, and had cooked tonight, but others occasionally took a turn in the kitchen. The table was piled with homemade macaroni and cheese, parmesan zucchini and squash, roasted carrots, garlic chicken, and fresh bread. It looked like enough food to feed an army, which made it roughly enough to feed a family of werewolves. 

Stiles ended up in deep conversation with Niamh about his extensive knowledge of obscure supernatural creatures, as well as her family’s Irish roots. Apparently, Niamh had been born in Ireland, near Galway, before their parents had moved to the states, a year before Ronan was born in Arizona. 

“That must have been a change,” Stiles said. He’d never been to either Ireland or Arizona, but he could imagine that the differences between the two places were stark.

Niamh laughed sharply. “Oh, yeah. That’s an understatement.” She still had a slight burr to her accent, making the words soft and lilting. “The magic is different, for one thing.”

“The magic?” He’d been thinking flora and fauna. Weather. Culture.

“In Ireland, magic is...tricky, I suppose is the best word. Finicky. You never know if you’re playing by the right rules. Follow the will o’ the wisps to your destiny or your death. In the desert, in Arizona, you didn’t have to guess. There was life and there was death and there was the magic between. Both places, though, you could just...breathe and know how ancient the power was.”

Stiles had never felt wanderlust, not really, but for a split second, as he listened to Niamh, he understood it. He closed his eyes and pictured what it would be like to leave Beacon Hills and touch the magic of other places. To feel foreign winds on his skin, hot sands under his feet, cold salty breezes on his tongue. For a moment, he wanted it. He wanted to leave and touch and feel and taste. Then he came back into his body and remembered why he loved this place. Beacon Hills was his home. Even if he never got  _ his _ pack back again, if he succeeded in saving the Hales and changing the future entirely, it would still be the place where he belonged. He’d bled for this piece of land. He’d chained himself to it, willingly, and it was his to protect. Still, he was grateful for that moment of  _ something more _ that Niamh had shown him and he smiled at her softly.

“That sounds wonderful,” he told her sincerely.

After dinner, Stiles helped clear the table, brushing off protests that he was ‘a guest’ and ‘didn’t need to help’ as politely as possible. Talia had let him into her home, let him eat with her pack, sleep near her family. The  _ least _ he could do was wash some dishes.

“Where are you from, Kazik?” Nora asked him casually. She was drying the dishes and putting them away as he washed. Stiles started scrubbing extra hard at some cheese stuck on a plate to disguise his reaction to her question. He shouldn’t have been startled. It was a normal, innocuous, valid question. That he couldn’t answer.

“Not far from here,” he said vaguely. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know the wounds are still fresh and it must feel like we’re digging into them every time we ask you questions. It’s just...you can understand why we’re curious?”

Stiles sighed and handed her a clean plate. “Yeah, of course I understand. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from asking a thousand questions. But what does it matter where I’m from if it doesn’t exist anymore? If I don’t have them? I want to just focus on now, as much as possible.”

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. It was ridiculous to be so worked up about this, he thought. It wasn’t like his pack had been  _ dead _ in the future and they certainly weren’t dead now. He had the opportunity to save eleven innocent lives, to prevent Peter from going crazy and killing Laura, to prevent all the deaths caused by the kanima, to stop so many horrible things. He should be grateful. Happy. And he was. He  _ was _ . That didn’t mean that the amputated connections in his chest didn’t hurt like a bitch.

Cora had told him once that losing a pack member wasn’t like losing family, it was like losing a limb. He thought maybe she should work on her metaphors because it felt a whole lot worse than losing a limb, in his opinion. Maybe it was different for him because of his magic, which he thought of as connected to his soul or his essence or whatever it was called. The core of his being. The bonds to the rest of the pack had grown out of that inner light organically, like the branches of a tree, stretching outward, strengthening, drawing upon his love for them and their affection for him. To sever that was worse than he could have possibly imagined.

Thankfully, Nora just nodded at him with slightly damp eyes and changed the subject. “Talia mentioned that she’s going to help you enroll in Beacon Hills High School. How do you feel about that?”

Stiles let out a startled laugh. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “It seems kind of strange to just...go to classes, you know?”

She glanced at him sympathetically, accepting a clean plate that he passed over. “Yes, I can see what you’re saying. Derek will help you, though, as will Laura. I know we’re not your pack, but we’re more than up to the task of holding up the scaffolds until you’re back on your feet.”

“I appreciate it,” he said earnestly. Seriously, if all Derek’s family was this open and generous, it was no wonder that he’d closed himself off so thoroughly after everything that happened. Stiles had pushed him so hard in those first few months that they’d known each other, merciless in his teasing and his accusations before he’d slowly backed off. Things had gotten better between them after the pack started coming together, really coming together, and Stiles had learned how to navigate Derek’s moods and sometimes violent reactions. It had taken him weeks to figure out that the trick was actually to use his greatest strength: talking. Derek didn’t like to talk, didn’t like to answer questions, but he also felt lonely and pained by the silence so Stiles would find any and every excuse to come spend time with the Alpha. It started with him coming over just to talk about the latest monster of the week, or about how Erica and Boyd were doing post-torture, or about what the pack had done at school that day. Then he started bringing dinner because,  _ ‘You can’t eat take-out every night, Derek, god, you need real food with real vegetables. Honestly, how have you survived this long. Sit. I’m cooking.’  _ Eventually, Derek just stopped fighting him and Stiles found himself spending more time at Derek’s loft than anywhere else, doing homework or research or dragging the pups in to force them to study because he  _ knew _ they weren’t doing it on their own.

Stiles wiped out the now empty sink and sighed, missing Derek,  _ his _ Derek, so fiercely it was like a physical pain. He missed the way the Alpha would roll his eyes whenever Stiles would make a particularly bad joke and the way he’d try to hide how secretly pleased he was when Stiles would fuss over him or anyone else in the pack. He missed teasing him about his grumpiness, he missed how the afternoons would often soften into comfortable silence as Derek read quietly on the couch while Stiles sprawled on the floor with his laptop. He missed pack nights, with Erica taking up more space with her sprawling limbs than was logically possible. Isaac snarking at everyone while subtly seeking their approval. He missed the puppy piles, especially. It had only been a day! Less than twenty-four hours, even! He tamped down on his emotions firmly and told himself to get a grip. He knew, in the rational part of his brain that never stopped analyzing everything (including his own emotions), that the only reason he was losing it this way was because the second Talia Hale had introduced herself he’d known he was going to do everything in his power to save her and her family, changing the future forever. It had never even been a question. Just as the logical conclusion to this endeavor couldn’t be questioned

It was clear that everyone was still ravenously curious about him, but they allowed him to go back up to the guest room after dinner without interference. He collapsed onto the stupidly soft bed and stared up at the ceiling for a long time. He’d had the whole day to get used to being in the past and to mourn his situation. It was time to plan.

By morning, Stiles was confident in his initial game plan. Step one: information gathering. This was essential to any winning strategy and also happened to be one of his greatest strengths. He’d decided that it would be safer to do this outside of the Hale house, given the sensitivity of the information he would be gathering. So, the library it would have to be.

He had borrowed more of Derek’s clothes this morning, this time a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, and he’d told Talia that he was going to look for a job downtown. She’d frowned at him and told him it wasn’t necessary, that they’d take care of him while he was there, but he’d dug in his heels. There was no way he was going to mooch off them without even trying to pull his weight financially; that just wasn’t who he was as a person. Plus, it would give him an excuse to be out of the house in the coming weeks outside of school hours.

He stopped by the local coffee shop to pick up an application before heading to the library, deciding to fill it out while he researched. He’d check out a few more places when he was done but the coffee shop in his time seemed to always be hiring and, luckily, it seemed the same was true no matter what decade it was. 

“Thanks,” he said, grinning at the barista who handed him the thin application along with his large triple-shot, dark roast coffee. The barista was college aged, probably attending the local community college, with dyed black hair and a silver nose ring that caught the light whenever he turned his head. Stiles could feel a hint of magic in him, but not enough to warrant concern. Stiles saluted him with two fingers and backed out the door before walking the final two blocks to the library, sipping at the liquid fuel he’d purchased with the money Talia had so graciously insisted he take with him that morning.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, sitting down at the ancient desktop in the back of the library. “Let’s do this.” 

The computer operated so slowly Stiles wanted to scream. After logging in using a guest password, he started filling out the coffee shop application, managing to get through almost the entire first section before the screen finally loaded. He was just staring at the field marked “Social Security Number” when he glanced up and saw today’s date. October 22, 2004. He felt his stomach swoop and he reached out to clutch the desk to keep himself from falling over. His mother was still alive. He hadn’t been sure, but now, looking at the tiny glowing numbers and letters in the corner of the screen, he knew for a fact that she would still be alive for another month, holding onto life in a hospital room just a few miles from here. He could go see her, he could walk into that room and see her on that bed, frail and thin, covered in wires, and tell her how sorry he was, how much he missed her. He wondered if she would recognize him. He wondered what she would think of him if she did.

He let out the breath he’d been holding slowly and released the white knuckled grip he had on the edge of the desk. Maybe he would go see her, maybe he wouldn’t, but he wouldn’t go right now. He pulled up the internet browser - which was  _ Firefox _ , because it was 2004 and his life sucked - and started searching.

He started with the simple things, details he either didn’t know or didn’t remember because he never knew he’d be in a position where he’d have to know everything about the Hale pack circa 2004. He had completely forgotten that MySpace was a thing and oh  _ man _ did he wish he could lord over Peter that he knew just how well maintained that man’s account was. He did not expect Zombiewolf to be so into Avril Lavigne. 

Unfortunately, it looked like Kate had already started teaching at Beacon Hills High School. Derek only had a superficial online presence, enough to show that he was fairly popular and definitely a jock, but not enough for Stiles to have any idea whether Kate had already sunk her claws into him or not. 

The Argents did not have any social media accounts whatsoever. There was, however, a pretty clear trail to follow via newspaper articles so that he could easily track where each of them had been up to this point - along with the police and FBI files he’d not so legally acquired to make sure he was right. It wasn’t his fault that he’d known his father’s password since he was six and that Scott’s dad was pretty much the dumbest man to ever live and should not have been trusted to keep sensitive information electronically. Seriously, the man had used a variation of the same password since he’d been hired and it was only a matter of figuring out the date and a tiny bit of math to know which iteration of said password to use.

Gerard, as Stiles had suspected, often lost himself to the hunt and left carnage in his wake that was hard to pass off as simple animal attacks or accidents. His kills had actually made it onto the FBI’s watchlist and he was being tracked as a serial killer. Unfortunately, he was very good at what he did and had enough goons at his beck and call to help him stay under the radar. As far as the authorities were aware, their mystery killer only had twelve murders under his belt, though Stiles happened to know it was a lot more than that. Just from what he’d been able to piece together in the past two hours, in fact, the body count was at least forty. And that was only in the past five years.

Kate...Kate was even worse. Stiles had suspected, given how smoothly everything had occurred with her sickening plan, that what she’d done to Derek wasn’t the first time she’d done something like that. He still wasn’t prepared for the evidence. Apparently, seducing a member of the pack, killing everyone, and then leaving that one person alive was her favorite thing to do. The fact that more members of the Hale family than just Derek survived had actually been a fluke, it seemed. Stiles put his hand over his mouth, swallowing bile. He compiled the news reports, knowing now what keywords to put in, and then cross referenced with FBI case files. It wasn’t all the same. There were two other fires, like the Hales, but also a bombing, a shoot out, a mass poisoning. It looked like she was trying to find what she liked best. Stiles decided that Peter hadn’t done enough when he’d ripped out her throat in the future. He should have done much, much worse. It was taking everything in him not to go find her now and do just that. Everything in him rebelled against the idea of her even being in the same town, the same  _ state _ , as the Hales. He took a few controlled breaths and carefully closed the tabs and files after writing down all the relevant information on some stolen printer paper.

It was harder to find anything on Chris and Victoria, but eventually he saw that they were currently living in Seattle. He couldn’t find any crimes associated with them, but he hadn’t expected to. Chris had never broken the Code, as far as he was aware, and was always clean about his kills. Stiles, like Derek, didn’t think he could ever fully trust him, but he did believe Chris when he said that he would only ever kill if a creature was truly dangerous. 

Stiles sat back in his chair, exhausted. It was nearly one in the afternoon now, despite the fact that he’d gotten to the library right as it opened at nine am, but he still had one more thing to look into for today before he was willing to leave. 

Alan Deaton had even less of an online footprint than anyone else he’d searched today. He had no social media, which wasn’t surprising, but also no website for his veterinary practice, which was. He had no driver’s license on file, at least not under the name ‘Alan Deaton’ or any variation thereof, and even the property on which his house and practice sat wasn’t in his name. It was in Talia’s. 

Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face, thinking. Suddenly he leaned forward and started typing again, switching directions. He started searching the name ‘Marin Morrell’. From there, he was led down the rabbit hole to a short newspaper article from Warwick, Canada. It was in French, and he didn’t have Google Translate at his disposal to help him at least get the gist of it, so he had to struggle through it word by word with an actual dictionary he pulled off a shelf. Luckily, it was only a couple paragraphs and he was able to understand enough to know that Remy and Charlotte Morrell had died in a car accident. In a small town, their deaths were poignant and felt by the whole community, yet it was seen as an ordinary, senseless tragedy. Still, Stiles couldn’t help but feel that there was more to the story. Why would Deaton have moved thousands of miles away and changed his name if it was nothing more sinister than an unfortunate loss of control on a country road?

Stiles frowned at the screen and tapped his borrowed pen against the desk in a frustrated staccato. He’d debated for hours last night about whether to go see the Druid, seeing as Stiles was fairly certain Deaton’s potions had something to do with how he was here in the first place, but he also knew that he couldn’t stand the man’s infuriating placidity. Deaton never seemed to get riled, not truly, never gave them all the information - vital,  _ life-saving _ information, Stiles might add - never went out of his way to actually be helpful to anyone. If Stiles were being honest, he was sure Deaton actually went out of his way to  _ avoid _ being helpful. He probably chalked it up to ‘maintaining the balance’ or whatever other druidic bullshit. In Stiles’ least charitable moments, he wondered if Deaton had stepped back and allowed the Hales to die for the sake of the ‘balance’. He would say it was unfair of him to think such things of Deaton, given that he’d been Talia’s Emissary -  _ is _ Talia’s Emissary, damn - but Deaton hadn’t so much as reached out to Laura and Derek after the fire. He’d left two grieving children to flounder on their own after losing their entire family. He had left Peter alone in the hospital with his grief and rage and pain. Stiles knew for a fact that Deaton could have done something. It didn’t help him nurture warm and fuzzy feelings for the man.

“And what are you up to, lost little mage?” purred a familiar voice, directly in his ear.

Stiles jumped, his pen flying out of his fingers. He barely refrained from screaming. “Peter! Jesus Christ! Do you have to be so damn  _ creepy _ ?” He slammed his hand over his chest to calm his racing heart.

Peter chuckled and settled into the seat beside him. His blue eyes were watching him sharply. “You should be more aware of your surroundings.”

Stiles frowned, but didn’t disagree. He wondered how long Peter had been here, watching him. As far as he knew, it could have been the entire morning. He had no idea how long his mysterious ‘errand’ for Talia had taken him. “I was lost in thought.”

“I could see that,” Peter replied with a smirk. It was odd to see him looking so much younger. His eyes were mischievous, but there was no madness, no grief, in their depths. The change was almost eerie. “I’m guessing you recognized me from your stalking?” he asked lightly, jerking his chin toward the computer.

“Wha-?” Stiles glanced back at the screen to make sure Peter’s MySpace wasn’t still up. It wasn’t. The only thing showing was the article about the car crash. “I wasn’t stalking,” Stiles argued. “I recognized you from photos at the house. Besides, you knew who I was, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Peter confirmed, “but it’s a lot easier to know one stranger who comes into my home than for said stranger to know me, out of all the wolves in my family, yes?”

Stiles frowned and glanced around to see if anyone was within hearing distance, but apparently no one visits the library in the middle of a Friday. He turned back, wanting to punch that arrogant look off Peter’s face. “You’re not just any wolf though, are you? You’re Talia’s Second. It makes sense that I’d be aware of the pack’s enforcer, since you’re the one most likely to kill me if she changes her mind about me.” There, a valid argument. Take that, Zombiewolf.

Peter laughed. “Oh, I think I like you. Alright, care to tell me what you’re doing here, rather than finding a job like you said you were doing?”

Stiles held up the application he’d begun and hadn’t finished. “I didn’t lie. See?”

“And yet, you didn’t fill it out. And this is only for one position. You can’t honestly expect to be hired at the first place you apply to?” he challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes. He looked down at the paper. “I may have run into a snag,” he admitted.

“A snag?” Peter leaned forward to peer at the paper with him, and it was a sign of how much growth had occurred between the two of them in the future that Stiles didn’t shrink away in fear.

“I...well, it’s not a good idea if they run a background check on me?” he said hesitantly. 

Peter looked up at him, both eyebrows raised this time. “Oh?” Stiles shrugged. Peter turned back to the application thoughtfully, on hand coming up to scratch at his jaw. “Hmm. Well, I might have some connections that could help you with that. Or…” he trailed off, his expression pensive.

“Why am I not surprised that you have those kinds of connections,” Stiles muttered before asking louder, “Or what?”

“Or we can find you less conventional employment.”

“I really hope you’re not suggesting prostitution.”

Peter actually looked offended, for which Stiles was glad. “No, of course not. I meant selling your magical services. Mages aren’t exactly common creatures, you know, especially ones as powerful as you. I know several people who would pay a pretty penny for the things you can do.”

“Oh.” Stiles had never considered that something like that could be a possibility. “You should probably know that I never finished my training. I mean, I only started like, five months ago. It can be unpredictable sometimes, if I get emotional. I can do some basic stuff, but I don’t know what people are looking for.”

Peter was looking at him appraisingly. It made Stiles squirm slightly in his chair. “You can offer small things. Amulets, protection charms, wards, weapons, that kind of thing. Would any of that be a problem?”

Stiles let out a sigh of relief. “No, no. I can do all of that.”

“Good.” Peter was still studying him intently and Stiles didn’t know what to make of it. It didn’t help that he was still sitting entirely too close for comfort. “Have you eaten?”

“What?” Stiles asked, startled. “Oh, uh, no?”

“Come on, then.”

Stiles logged out of the computer and shoved his notes into his pocket hastily before following Peter out to his car. He stood beside the ridiculous sports car, watching Peter slide into the driver’s seat, feeling bewildered. Peter gestured impatiently for him to get in and Stiles shook himself out of his stupor to open the passenger door and drop into the seat, wondering if he’d actually fallen asleep at the desk and he was just dreaming this whole exchange because it  _ seemed _ like Peter was trying to take him out to lunch.

Peter was, in fact, taking him to lunch. He took him to the local diner, which looked exactly the same as it would in seven years, complete with the exact same menu and servers wearing the same uniform. Stiles ordered his usual, unsure whether to be comforted by the familiarity or weirded out. They were even sitting in his favorite booth. Or rather, the one that had  _ become _ his favorite once the pack started coming here regularly, claiming the back corner as their own so that they could watch the exits and keep out of the way with their rowdy, teenage shenanigans.

“So,” Peter started, sipping his drink, “you haven’t found your anchor.”

Stiles stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “I’m not a werewolf.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I am aware. You are, however, a very powerful mage whose magic is ‘unpredictable’ when you get emotional, as you told me. Can you think of anyone else who loses control with extreme emotions?”

Curse this smug bastard. “Maira would have told me if I needed an anchor,” Stiles frowned. She would have. He was sure of it. Then again, he thought, feeling a curling tendril of doubt in his stomach, he hadn’t told her about any of the times he’d lost control. Not really. He hadn’t wanted her to worry or to stop his lessons. He’d been terrified that if she knew that he was using magic irresponsibly that she’d cut him off and he’d be left struggling in the dark again. Now, though, he wondered if it was one of those things that she planned on teaching him as he ‘grew into his magic’ and she felt he had a need for it. 

“Tell me about the times when you lose control.”

Stiles flinched and drew his arms into himself. It had only happened a handful of times: in the Argents’ basement, in the forest with the centaurs, with the Darach who tried to compel Derek to love her, with the chimera who nearly killed Isaac that one time. None of those events were particularly good memories. 

“What usually triggers it?” Peter pushed.

“When my pack is in danger,” Stiles answered with a shrug. He didn’t know why he was indulging the wolf like this. It wasn’t any of his business. 

“I see.” He paused to let the waitress set their food down and walk away before continuing. “You have a strong protective instinct.”

Stiles shoved a curly fry in his mouth. “Yeah, so?”

“What happens if you’re in danger?” Peter asked curiously. He picked up his fork and knife delicately, like the pompous aristocrat he pretended to be. Stiles rolled his eyes at the delicate bite Peter took of his chicken parmesan.

“Answering a question with a question?” Stiles scoffed. He shook his head and ate another handful of fries. “I don’t know what to tell you, dude. I can use my magic for self-defense, but I don’t know a whole lot yet so it’s usually only marginally effective. I’m better at the preemptive stuff at the moment. Why?”

“Interesting. What if I were to tell you that woman you were researching is here right now, looking at me?”

Stiles stopped chewing and looked up. His magic still wasn’t completely recovered, probably wouldn’t be for another day or so, but he felt sparks jump across his skin nonetheless. He was fairly sure his irises had become quicksilver, as they always did when he got close to losing control.

“Where?” he managed.

Peter reached a hand across the table and wrapped his fingers around Stiles’ wrist. “Calm down. I lied. She’s not here. I only said that to gauge your reaction, though I must say it is gratifying to see that I am somehow on the list of people you feel willing to protect. You seem like the type to have a very short list in that regard.”

Stiles grit his teeth and pulled his magic back down below the surface of his skin. He focused on where Peter was holding him, letting the contact ground him. “You asshole,” he spat, once he was calm enough to speak. His breath was still too harsh in his throat and he felt nauseated from the useless adrenaline. “Kate Argent is  _ not _ someone to joke about, do you fucking hear me, Peter Hale? Next time you see her, I expect you to either run or rip her throat out with your teeth, do you understand?”

All amusement was gone from Peter’s eyes now. “Kate Argent. The one who seduces young boys and murders entire packs?”

Stiles’ lip lifted in a snarl. “That’s the one.”

Peter sat back in the booth, his hand sliding from Stiles’ wrist. “And she’s here? Is she targeting my pack?”

“Yes,” Stiles said bluntly. “Unless I kill her first.”

Peter blinked in surprise before a slow grin spread across his face. “Oh, I was right. I  _ do _ like you.”

Stiles huffed and rolled his eyes, but some of the tension bled out of his spine at Peter’s familiar antics. “Glad you approve of my murderous tendencies.”

“Wholeheartedly,” Peter affirmed. Stiles shook his head and laughed.

They didn’t speak for the remainder of their meal. Once they were nearly done with their food, Stiles asked the question that had been rolling around in his head the entire time he worked his way through his burger and fries. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I have a short list of people to protect?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m the same way. I would do anything for my family, but outside of them?” He balled up his napkin and tossed it onto his plate apathetically. “Fuck it. The world can burn.”

It was terrifying how similar he and Peter truly were once Peter wasn’t a crazed psychopath hellbent on revenge. Stiles nodded. “Yeah, I get that.”

Stiles was quiet on the ride back to the house, lost in his thoughts. If the others were here, they would be concerned at his silence, but all of his usual verbosity was confined to his head at the moment, trapped behind a wall of fear and doubt. After Peter had confirmed that he’d been lying about Kate’s presence in the diner, Stiles had still looked around furtively, keeping an eye out for the blonde she-demon. There had been no sign of her, but Stiles hadn’t been able to shake the paranoia. She was here, in Beacon Hills, and had direct access to not only Derek but Laura as well. 

“You’ll share with me your plan to kill this woman, won’t you?” Peter asked, before they came in range of werewolf hearing. 

Stiles looked over at him. Peter’s posture was relaxed as he drove, shoulders and hands almost purposefully loose, but Stiles knew him better now. In the months since his return from the dead, Peter had been slowly working his way back into the land of the living. According to Cora, Peter had even started going to therapy, miracle of miracles. Peter’s increased presence around the pack is why Stiles was now able to see the tension around his eyes, the abnormal stillness in his fingers, the artful deliberateness of his slouch.

“I’ll even invite you along. You seem useful.”

Peter barked a laugh and Stiles was gratified to see his shoulders loosen for real. “That I am, little mage. I can assure you.” His fingers started tapping against the steering wheel for the final few minutes of the drive and Stiles mentally worked Peter into his plans to kill Kate.

_ A family who kills together, stays together, _ Stiles thought, smirking to himself.

“Daddy, daddy!” Stiles heard immediately upon stepping out of the car. Nora was standing on the porch, Marcus and Aurelia on either hip. They were both stretching their arms out for Peter.

Suddenly, everything that had happened with Peter last year was thrown into a terrible new light. Of course Stiles knew that Peter had been grieving and broken. Of course Stiles knew that he’d lost everything, including his mind. But standing here in the afternoon sunshine, watching as a laughing Peter Hale swung his twin children into his arms and spun them around as they giggled and clung to him joyfully, Stiles could not imagine a greater tragedy. 

“Do I not get any of this love, Mr. Hale?” Nora asked teasingly. Her hand was on her hip in faux admonition as she waited to be acknowledged. Peter leapt lightly up the steps and set the children down on the porch swing to lift her in his arms instead, swinging her around the same way he had done the twins. She threw her head back and laughed, holding onto his shoulders.

“You ridiculous man!” she screeched. “Put me down!”

“As you wish, m’lady,” he said, before setting her gently on her feet and kissing her. Stiles felt like an uncomfortable voyeur into something he was never meant to see. He leaned against the car, unable to look away from the marvel that was a happy Peter Hale and his family.

Eventually they were finished with their reunion and started inside, waving at him to follow. Derek was already home from school, since basketball season hadn’t started yet, but Laura was at soccer practice and wouldn’t be home for another hour or so. She usually picked Cora up from school on the way home, since middle school let out later and Cora’s lacrosse practice made it so that Laura only had to wait a few minutes in the parking lot.

Nora explained all this to him as she led him to a room in the back of the house. He followed her obediently, feeling a bit like a duckling trailing after whoever was showing him the most attention at the moment. Nora kept talking about all the kids, moving on now to Marcus and Aurelia and how happy they were now that their father was home. She opened the door to the room she was aiming for and ushered him inside.

He couldn’t help but gasp. He had a moment where he felt a bit like Belle from Beauty and the Beast when the Beast showed her his library. He understood how she’d fallen in love with him after that. 

The room was huge, far larger than he would have expected as they came down the hall. It was obvious that at some point the wall between two bedrooms had been knocked down to make this into one room - all the better to house the  _ plethora _ of books within it. Stiles stepped further into the room, looking around reverently. He walked up to the nearest shelf and ran his fingers over the titles.  _ Sköll and Hati: Origin of the Myth, Fenrir and His Descendants, Lycaon of Arcadia, Neuri: Wolfmen of Scythia, The Jilted Lover of Gilgamesh.  _ Stiles felt giddy. It was an entire section dedicated to origin myths of werewolves. Was he in heaven? He was pretty sure he was in heaven.

“I thought you might like this room,” Nora said smugly. She was leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. He could see why she and Peter got along.

“I do,” he breathed, still scanning the titles. He moved on to what was clearly the shelf for books on the intricacies of pack dynamics. “Can I live in this room forever?”

She laughed. “No, but you can stay here until dinner. And you’re free to come in here and read whenever you’d like. You can’t take any of the books out of this room, I’m afraid, but Peter and I thought you might enjoy the knowledge for knowledge’s sake.”

Stiles looked up from an inspection of a book on werewolf anatomy, startled. “You talked about me? When did you get a chance to talk about me?”

Nora raised her eyebrow. Damn these Hales and their eyebrows. “If you think I didn’t call my husband last night and tell him everything I knew about you, then you clearly got a poor first impression of me. Talia spoke to him as well.”

Stiles inclined his head to her slightly in acknowledgement. “Makes sense. Just seems strange that both of you seem to know me so well after just meeting me.”

“You have an open face. It’s easy to read.”

“Great,” Stiles muttered, placing the book in his hands gently back on the shelf.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she assured him. “It’s the reason why Talia knew that you weren’t a danger to us. How we knew you lost your pack, even though you’ve never said so out loud. Communication is more than words, Kazik, and you excel at making yourself known when you’re not speaking.”

Stiles snorted at the irony. “Thank you, I think.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll leave you to it, then. Derek will come get you when it’s time for dinner.”

Stiles nodded and thanked her, not questioning why Derek specifically would be the one to fetch him, instead losing himself to reading as much as he could get his hands on in the few hours he had before he would be called away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want more information about mythical creatures, please hit me up. I am making my own beastiary because I am a complete nerd! Just ask in the comments about what you wanna know


	4. Defensive Magic 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the start of this, I really hadn't intended to make Peter such a big character. He just...insinuated himself into my story and won't leave now.
> 
> Also, I'm thinking of weaving more flashbacks into the story, maybe some with the pack? Thoughts? Otherwise I might post them separately. Who knows.

_ Stiles flopped onto the worn leather couch dramatically, limbs flailing. He’d spent the last several hours working his way through the most boring book in the history of mankind on every plant with any relevance to magic or supernatural creatures. He now knew every strain of wolfsbane, also known as aconite, monkshood, leopard's bane, mousebane, women's bane, devil's helmet, queen of poisons, or blue rocket, which just seemed like an excessive amount of names if you asked him, as well as where it grew, how much sunlight it preferred, what kinds were the most lethal to werewolves, and about a thousand other details about the plant that he’d never known anyone would devote so much time to knowing. Seriously, that chapter alone was almost three hundred pages. Then there’d been the chapters on digitalis (also known as foxglove), rowan oak (mountain ash), mistletoe, mugwort, dandelion root, letharia vulpina (wolf lichen), lavender, and on and on and on until his eyes were red rimmed with exhaustion and his brain simply couldn’t comprehend the words on the page any longer. _

_ “Are you trying to torture me? I’m pretty sure this is torture. Why can’t we do something cool, like make things levitate or light candles with my mind or ride around on broomsticks, cackling into the night?” _

_ Maira didn’t look up from where she was busy carving intricate runes into the blade of a knife. Granted, it was a cool knife, with an iron core made for going after faeries and other creatures with a weakness for such things, but the fact that she got to do that while he was stuck reading about how some herbs were best harvested under a new moon and dried in the dark while others needed to be cut with a freshly cleaned blade under the noon sun and dried in an eastern facing window was just simply unfair. He told her as much. In detail. _

_ Maira finished the last rune on the blade and dipped the knife into a mixture of milk thistle, cinnamon, and arnica blended into a quart of oil that he’d watched Maira spend the last month purifying at each phase of the moon. He knew now, thanks to his afternoon of cruel and unusual punishment, that the milk thistle was for weaving protection into the etched runes, the cinnamon for making sure the knife always struck true, and the arnica for protection against spirits, likely because she wanted to use the weapon against wraiths as well as faeries. He sighed to himself, letting his head flop back down onto the cushions. He guessed the day hadn’t been a complete waste of time, even if it had been hell trying to focus the entire, oh god, eight hours he’d been here. _

_ She set the knife in the windowsill to dry and came over the couch. She picked up his legs unceremoniously and sat down, pulling his feet into her lap. _

_ “First of all,” she said, “we don’t fly around on broomsticks and I resent the stereotype that you’re perpetuating.” Stiles laughed. “Second, I know that until now you’ve made a habit of just running in and doing your best with no training and little information, but that’s really not the way it should be done. You need to understand what you’re doing and why. What would have happened if I had done that same ritual for that knife with yarrow instead of arnica?” _

_ Stiles furrowed his brow. “Um.” He tried to think about everything he’d read about the two herbs. “I mean, yarrow can also be used for spirit-related magic, like exorcisms and stuff. It’s used a lot in psychic magics, though. Clairvoyance, divination, psychic protection, that kind of thing. I’m not sure why it would have messed up your ritual though.” _

_ “What is the base element of each herb used in that ritual?” _

_ “Fire,” he said automatically. Then, “Ohhh.” Yarrow was elementally a water plant. It would have reacted terribly with the cinnamon and the milk thistle, especially given that the base of the whole potion was oil and not moon water. _

_ “Now you understand? You have to have a grasp on these concepts in order to not cause unintended consequences. Besides, you’re still young. You came into your magic suddenly, violently, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be given the chance to grow into your powers, get to know them.” _

_ Stiles frowned. “I get that,” he said hesitantly, because he did. To an extent. “But what’s the point of having these abilities if I can’t protect my pack? I mean, the other day we were fighting these faeries and I had no idea what I was doing. And because I didn’t know how to use my magic to fight, one of them stabbed me and the whole pack was distracted because I got hurt. We almost lost because I can’t handle myself in a fight.” Stiles was getting more and more frustrated as he talked. He knew it was probably unreasonable to get this worked up about not having control of his magic yet, since he’d only been studying with Maira for a little over two weeks now and had only found out the true extent of his magic three weeks before that, but damn it! He hated feeling weak and magic seemed like an excellent way to never be weak again. _

_ “Stiles,” Maira said gently. Her hand curled around his ankle comfortingly. “Magic is just like any other skill. Would you expect to be a black belt in karate just because you attended class for two weeks?” He pursed his lips and looked away. “No, you wouldn’t. It’s the same with this. You did something incredible -” she squeezed his ankle harder when he flinched “-you did something  _ incredible _ that night when you saved yourself and your friends. But that is not something you had control over and it’s not something you can  _ expect _ to have control over until you’ve had enough training and practice. Do you understand?” _

_ Stiles sighed. “Yes.” _

_ She smiled at him. “Doesn’t mean you’re happy about it though, does it?” _

_ He managed a short laugh. “No, it doesn’t.” _

_ “That’s okay. We’ll get through this. I’ll help you and you have your pack that you can lean on. Now, about lighting candles with your mind.” _

☽☆☾•☽☆☾•☽☆☾

Stiles woke up disoriented. His back and neck were sore from sleeping uncomfortably and his cheek was creased with lines from where his face had been pressed against a book. He looked around blearily. He must have fallen asleep in the library last night while reading. He’d been in the middle of a book on the history of the Benandanti witches, which was fascinating and the reason he’d stayed awake until past three in the morning.

He was surprised that no one had come to shoo him to bed or to wake him now that it was morning. Actually, he realized as he glanced out the window (the Hales  _ really _ liked windows) he was pretty sure it was at least noon. He groaned and stretched, his back popping like a glow stick as he moved for what was likely the first time in at least nine hours. He wondered what it said about him that the best sleep he’d had in months came while hunched over a book on supernatural history while trapped in the past.

Before he’d gotten sidetracked by Italian witchcraft, he’d come back to the library after dinner and spent most of the night researching time travel and anything to do with time or alternate dimension related magics. He’d had a striking thought while passing a bowl of mashed potatoes to Niamh that there was a possibility that his existence here was only temporary and that he could be pulled back to the future at any moment. He’d nearly dropped the potatoes at this realization, his heart rate spiking wildly, causing all the wolves at the table to look at him in alarm.

“I’m fine!” he’d told them. “Sorry, I just...remembered something.” 

Everyone had relaxed at that, murmuring their understanding and quiet offers of comfort, clearly thinking he’d suddenly had a mashed potatoes-related memory of his pack. Peter met his eye, though, with a knowing gaze and Stiles did his best to subtly signal to him that yes, Peter was correct in thinking that his panic was not induced by remembered trauma, but rather something related to their earlier conversation. Peter had given him the slightest nod in return before turning to admonish Aurelia for rubbing butter in Marcus’ hair.

To his immense relief, every text he read seemed to agree that no matter how he’d arrived in the past, he would not be leaving it spontaneously. There were no spells in any of the collected grimoires that the Hales kept, all from previous Emissaries over the centuries, that would send someone through time only temporarily. It was always a one-way trip and the cost of the return ticket was steep. He’d let out a breath of relief once he’d gotten through the end of the last grimoire, having skimmed through the collection like a madman. He was here to stay; there was no chance of him just disappearing and leaving the Hales defenseless.

That was not to say he wasn’t going to put safeguards in place. Luckily, wards were one of his strongest abilities so far, provided none of his pack was directly in mortal danger. He’d spent hours pouring over books on the theory of warding, on different systems of runes and sigils, and, with Maira’s guidance, had perfected several different types. Derek’s loft, for example, had been so heavily warded that on the one occasion Deaton had needed to enter, Stiles had had to grant him access. That had been a good day.

He got up and started putting away the books scattered around him. Once he was done, he stretched again, his muscles still feeling abused, before heading out into the hall. The house was quiet, which was surprising for midday on a Saturday. He shuffled his way to the kitchen in search of coffee and found Laura leaning against the counter, looking very awake and put together, which was just offensive in contrast to how his body felt like that of a ninety year old man and the fact that sleep was still clinging valiantly to his eyelids.

“Morning!” she said brightly. He scrunched his nose at her in a way that he hoped conveyed how little energy he had to reply before he had caffeine in his system. Everyone usually assumed he was a morning person, but he had no idea why they’d think that considering he was usually up at least half the night with one thing or another. Mornings were for coffee and nothing else. “I heard you get up so I started coffee. I think it’s ready now.”

He took back every unkind thought he’d just had about her. She was wonderful. A goddess among men. Praise be.

He filled a mug with the life giving nectar and sipped deeply. Laura made some strong coffee. Almost as strong as he usually made his own. He might have chosen the wrong Hale to harbor a hopeless crush on.

“Are you back in the land of the living?” Laura asked him, once he’d taken a few sips, barely holding in her mirth. She was drinking tea, chai by the smell of it, and was watching him over the rim of her mug.

“Yes,” he sighed. “Coffee is a gift from the gods. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Where is everyone? It’s very quiet.”

“Oh, Peter and Nora took the twins to the park and dad had to go into work. Cora apparently has a school dance in a couple weeks so she convinced mom to take her dress shopping.” She made a face that indicated just how much suffering Talia had agreed to endure for the sake of her youngest child. “And Julian’s out with his girlfriend, like usual.”

“And Derek?”

Laura smirked at him. He didn’t want to know what that look in her eye meant. “Don’t worry. He’s still here, sleeping like the lazy teenage boy he is. He’s supposed to cut the grass before mom gets home, so he better get his ass up and get started soon.”

There was a pause as Laura was clearly listening to whatever her brother was saying from upstairs, likely something very unflattering, before she started cackling like the evil older sister she was. Stiles smiled fondly, watching her tease Derek.

“Anyway, I’ve got to head out soon too. I’m supposed to be working on a lit project with a couple people at a friend’s house. I’ll be back in a few hours. If you need anything, you can go shove Derek out of bed. Otherwise, Peter and them will be back soon probably.” She kept sipping at her tea, clearly not in a rush, though her eyes strayed toward the stove clock to make sure that she still had time.

“Okay. Don’t worry about me, I’m good. And if Derek’s still in bed after you leave, I’m a pro at getting teenagers to wake up to do things they don’t wanna do, so you can count on me,” he promised, chuckling as he remembered all the times he’d literally dragged Jackson or Isaac out of bed by their wrists or ankles. Not to mention the much longer history of hauling Scott’s human, then werewolf ass to greet the waking world with an unhappy scowl. Come to think of it, his role as unofficial alarm clock is probably why he’d gained the reputation for being a ‘morning person’.

Laura laughed. “Oh really? You have siblings, then?” A second later her expression fell and she looked like she was about to backtrack, realizing how insensitive her question was.

He spoke quickly to prevent her from getting too upset. “Nah. No siblings, at least not by birth, but the pups would get lazy about things and I’d have to stay on them about their homework or going to appointments and things like that. I thought Scott was the worst until Isaac came along and I realized he would literally sleep the entire day if I didn’t make sure he woke up and ate and put on real clothes.”

“I like how you call them pups,” she grinned, recovering from her misstep quickly upon seeing that he wasn’t about to have a breakdown in the kitchen. “Only our mom calls us that.”

Stiles groaned and tossed his head back. “Ugh. I know. They all used to call me Mom all the time. Even Jackson, which was just weird.”

Laura looked like she was loving this conversation and would absolutely be sharing it with everyone else at the first opportunity. “How old were they? I mean, you’re only seventeen, right?”

“Yeah. They were all around the same age. Most of them were sixteen, though Jackson and one other girl were seventeen. D- our Alpha was a little older, but not much. He was twenty-three.”

Laura’s amusement faded and she looked gutted. “They were all...that young? Was that the whole pack?”

Stiles shifted his weight awkwardly. “I mean, basically. There was one older guy, but he wasn’t always there. It was complicated.” He shrugged, not wanting to get into the details of Peter’s psychosis and everything he’d done to Scott, to Lydia, and all the work it had taken after that to form a tentative peace that had been slowly, glacially, growing into something more comfortable.

She frowned at him and he knew that she desperately wanted to push but didn’t know how. “I mean, how did that even happen?” she asked, changing direction. “A pack made entirely out of high schoolers and one college student? That just seems...super irresponsible. And terrible.”

Stiles stared at her for a long moment, his mind unable to do more than flash images of every terrible thing that had happened to them in the past year and a half. All the odds said that they shouldn’t have survived to see junior year, and yet they had done far more than survive. And now Stiles was here, in the past, about to unravel everything and hopefully knit it back into something even better. “It was!” he agreed with a wild grin. He set his coffee down on the counter to avoid spilling it with his shaking hands. “It was the  _ worst _ , you have no idea. Oh man. We all almost died, like, a million times. I literally have no idea how  _ I _ survived, all things considered. It was fun, though. Mostly. If you stretch the concept of  _ fun _ to include nearly being eaten on a weekly basis.” He stopped and cocked his head to the side as he considered that last sentence. The truth was, he did have a lot of good memories since Scott was bitten. It just so happened that those memories were interspersed with moments where he had been one hundred percent certain he was about to bleed out or literally be eaten or otherwise die a painful, sudden death.

“That’s...wow.” Laura was looking at him with her cup frozen halfway to her mouth, her eyes wide.

He shrugged and picked up his coffee again to take another long sip. He’d been aware, at the time, of how messed up it was to have a pack made of teenagers who had no idea what they were doing with an Alpha who only had a slightly better clue what he was doing, but now, seeing an actual, functioning pack, Stiles realized he’d had no concept of how out of their depth they’d been. It really was a miracle that they’d done as well as they had.

“Julian told me...well he said, I mean, when you first got here he saw,” she tried, looking embarrassed. He decided to take pity on her.

“He told you about my scars?” She nodded. “Yeah, I’ve got a collection. They’re kinda like Pokemon, gotta catch ‘em all, you know?” He grinned at her, but she didn’t smile back. “Hey, it’s alright. They’re not too bad. I think they actually make me look pretty badass.”

“Do you always joke about these things?”

“You mean pain and death? Yep. Usually.”

She shook her head, but a tiny smile pulled at her lips and he relaxed at seeing that she no longer looked like a spooked horse. “Whatever. Look, I’m gonna be late, but everyone’s number is written by the house phone and like I said, you’ve got Derek here and Peter and Nora’ll be home soon. Try not to get into mortal danger while I’m gone.”

“See! I’m not the only one with a sense of humor, Future Alpha Hale.”

“Goodbye, Kazik,” she said emphatically, already halfway to the door.

“Bye, Laura!”

Stiles finished his coffee and poured himself a second cup before heading out to the yard. Derek still hadn’t gotten out of bed, as far as Stiles could tell, meaning that Stiles was free to walk around the house and plan for the wards he’d be placing. It would be best for both propriety and the magic itself if he got Talia’s permission before he actually got started, but he would like to get an idea of what he was doing before he talked to her. It wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with the property, obviously, but he’d also never seen the building in its original form. The energy was completely different, for one thing, plus he’d noticed some minor wards whose energy felt a lot like Deaton’s. He’d have to find a way to either work with or around those. Assuming Talia didn’t think he was stepping on her Emissary’s toes, that is.

The house was huge, reminiscent of a Southern colonial home without all the terrible connotations. It was painted a light blue and filled with as many windows as they could structurally get away with. Stiles thought it was fortunate that they lived so isolated from the rest of society for the sake of the windows alone. In the backyard, a surprisingly extensive vegetable garden sprawled to the left of the house, surrounded by a wire fence currently being overgrown by bougainvillea. He stopped by the neat little square of earth before continuing his circuit, looking over the now barren rows marked by small, painted stones to indicate what would be planted there come spring. He wondered whose project this was, if it was a family affair or if there was a particular green thumb in the family. The stones looked like they’d been painted by a child, multiple children by the differing styles, so he thought maybe they all contributed to it at some point or another.

Before he turned back to his task, he ran one finger up the bare stem woven through the fence and pushed a tiny bit of his spark into it. The entire fence bloomed into startlingly bright shades of crimson, purple, orange, yellow, pink and white, so fast that Stiles stepped back in shock. He’d only meant to grow one, maybe two flowers, but he couldn’t deny that the sight of the entire bush painted so colorfully was a welcome one. He smiled at it before turning to continue his inspection. He sipped at his coffee, now nearly gone, and focused again on mentally drawing his wards, imagining where he should put the anchor, getting a feel for the ones Deaton already had in place. It was almost offensive how weak they were, as though Deaton didn’t actually care about the Hales’ safety.  _ That changes now _ , he thought viciously. 

He would also start working on creating protection amulets. Those would be easier than warding the Hale house, but more time consuming, since the strongest ones relied on the moon cycle. He planned to make enough for the entire pack, plus extra to sell to Peter’s shady clients. Though he supposed he shouldn’t call them that, since they would soon be  _ his _ shady clients if all went well.

He wasn’t worried about the work Peter had offered him. In fact, he was relieved that he’d get to do something other than the options he’d thought available to him. Before everything started, before Scott was bitten, Stiles hadn’t minded strangers. He didn’t  _ like _ them, necessarily, and preferred the company of Scott or his dad, but he had no problem being around people for long periods of time. That slowly started to change once his life became more Grimm fairy tale and less high school drama. Then, after Gerard, the only people he’d wanted to interact with were his pack. He still knew how to navigate the social world, obviously, and could happily talk his way into and out of anything, but just the  _ idea _ of customer service gave him hives. He’d have to buy Peter a fruit basket if this plan actually worked out. Did Peter even like fruit? He’d have to ask.

There was also the benefit of allowing him to continue working on his magic. He would have found time to study anyway, but he’d always done better with set goals. The types of magic Peter had asked for were the easiest, at least for him, which meant that they’d basically just be an opportunity for practice and improvement rather than learning anything new. Defensive magic had come naturally to him right from the start. That first week, Maira had tried to start him off “easy” by asking him to call on his magic. She told him to bring it to the surface and just sit with it, whatever that meant. Still, he remembered what it felt like when his magic had first “awoken”. It was a contradiction of soft warmth and sharp claws, a comfort and a weapon both. He sat on the floor of her living room and reached for it. Then, Maira had made the mistake of trying to correct his posture. As soon as she touched him, his magic had lashed out and shoved her away while creating a shield around his body. It had glowed silver and blue, sparking dangerously as his panic ebbed.

“I probably should have warned you not to touch me,” he’d quipped, trying to overcome the fact that he’d nearly  _ killed _ this woman.

“I should have asked,” she responded simply, accepting his apology and offering one of her own. “Let’s change gears, shall we?”

After that, she’d taught him basic self-defense. “These are things that, normally, a mage wouldn’t learn until after a year of training. You seem to be almost instinctively capable of them, so I’ll show you how they work so you don’t hurt yourself.” 

“Or anyone else,” he’d added. She’d given him a look, but hadn’t contradicted him as she started the lesson on expanding and contracting the shield he’d just produced. She’d been right about how instinctive this type of magic was; protective wards, concealment, blocking, everything except directly attacking an enemy felt almost more like remembering a forgotten skill than learning something new. Then, infuriatingly, once she was confident that he had a handle on his defensive instincts, she’d brought him back to square one and made him start from the beginning of proper Magic 101.

“What are you doing?”

Stiles jumped, arms flailing slightly as he turned. “Oh, hey, Derek,” he said as casually as possible for someone who just had the life scared out of him. “I would say good morning, but it’s actually afternoon now, so, you know, that ship has sailed.”

Derek rolled his eyes at him. “Did you grow those flowers?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, I did. They’re pretty, right?”

“Yeah, they are.” Derek was looking at him oddly. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong with the flowers. Unless he’d messed up their seasons or something by pushing them to grow in October. He knew a lot more about gardening now after so many lessons with Maira, but that really didn’t mean much when he had started with zero. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m planning to ask your mom if I can ward your house later.”

“So that’s why you’re walking around, being creepy?”

Stiles whipped his head back to look at him from where he’d been staring at the back wall of the house, a startled laugh leaving his throat. “Me? Creepy? Oh man.” He started laughing harder. The irony. Incredible.

“Yeah, you. You’re literally just walking around our yard with this weird look on your face. And then you’ll stop and stare at something and talk to yourself for a minute before you keep going. Like I said, creepy.”

“Huh.” Well when you put it that way. “I see your point. My apologies for being creepy, then,” he said. “I was visualizing the wards. I need to design them before I can actually put them up.”

“Design them? Like, a blueprint?”

“Basically, yeah. I need to see where everything is going to go, decide what sigils to use and if I need to create any of my own. I mean, I already kind of knew what I was going to do, but seeing the whole property really helps.”

Derek frowned. “The house isn’t the whole property, you know. It’s a lot bigger than that.”

“Oh, I know,” Stiles assured him, waving one hand negligently. “I plan to put the heaviest protection on the building itself and then expand outward in concentric circles. The farthest one will basically just be an alarm system. But the house? By the time I’m done you’ll be able to nuke it without damaging it, I promise.”

Derek laughed. It was far from the first time Stiles had heard him do so since arriving in 2004, but it affected him the same every time. Like a simultaneous knife to the heart and a glowing joy that radiated through his limbs. It was confusing and wonderful and awful at the same time.

“I don’t think anyone’s gonna bomb our house, Kaz.”  _ Kaz? _ He’s shortening Stiles’ fake nickname now. Stiles was going to have a heart attack, he really was. “Not much happens in Beacon Hills, to be honest. Well, except for what happened last year…” his voice trailed off, eyes going distant as he remembered everything that happened with Paige and the visiting packs. He rallied himself a moment later, coming back into focus. “But seriously, usually it’s just boring. You don’t have to like, prepare for war or anything.”

Stiles forced a smile, but it felt brittle on his face. “You never know, dude. It’s always better to be safe than sorry. Besides, the wards won’t take long and they’re not a big deal. I’ll just do some hocus pocus for a little bit and poof! You guys will be the Fort Knox of California.”

“Whatever,” he said, sounding just like his sister had earlier. “I’ve gotta mow the lawn before mom gets home. You need anything before I start?”

“Nah. Go do your chores, pup.”

Derek shoved his shoulder with a small scowl and walked off toward the garage, but not before Stiles saw the faint pink staining his ears. Stiles grinned to himself before going back in the house. 

Stiles had just finished washing his mug and putting it away when two tiny beings slammed into the backs of his legs. He let out a small ‘oof’ and grabbed the counter to keep himself upright.

“Kaz-Kazi-” Aurelia tried to say, her eyes wide and excited. He smiled at her and tapped her nose with the tip of his finger.

“Don’t hurt yourself, kid.” He scooped Marcus up onto his left hip and then let Aurelia climb him like a tiny, blonde monkey to sit on his right. “How was the park? Did you have fun?”

“Yeah!” Marcus exclaimed, directly into Stiles’ ear. He saw Peter smirk at his wince out the corner of his eye. 

“We met a dog,” Aurelia told him seriously.

“Oh really? What was the dog’s name?”

“Bear.”

Stiles fought not to laugh. “I thought it was a dog?”

Aurelia’s face scrunched up in frustration. “It  _ was  _ a dog!”

“But then you said it was a bear.” 

“His  _ name _ was Bear, silly!” Aurelia explained, exasperated. She flopped onto his shoulder dramatically. Stiles had an inkling of where she’d gotten that particular trait. 

“He was a big dog. Not as big as daddy when he’s a wo’f, but bigger ‘an me,” Marcus told him. “An’ he didn’t understand when we talked to ‘im. Daddy said so. ‘Parently Bear isn’t very smart.”

“Uh huh.” Stiles was grinning. He had no idea why the twins had automatically come to him to impart this very important story about Bear the dog, but they were so adorable clinging to him that he didn’t even question it. “What else happened? You guys were there for a long time.”

He let them tell him stories of their morning as he walked to the living room, passing by an exhausted looking Nora who gave him a grateful smile. He smiled back and sat gingerly on the couch, careful not to dislodge either child. They didn’t cease their chatter, simply adjusting themselves to better invade his personal space as they talked over each other in an effort to give him every detail of the Park Adventure.

“Kaz,” Aurelia said, because unlike Derek, she had the excuse of not being able to say ‘Kazik’, “do bugs have families?”

Having never quite grown out of the ‘ask strange and random questions’ phase of his life, Stiles was not daunted by this question. “Depends on the bug, I guess,” he answered. “Bees and ants live in colonies and it’s more like a queendom, where there’s one queen and all her subjects doing the work. I don’t really know about other bugs.”

“Cool,” Aurelia said reverently. “I wanna be a queen.”

“Me too!” Marcus said, bouncing slightly and jostling both Stiles and Aurelia with his exuberance. Stiles laughed and held them both a little closer to avoid them falling off.

“You can both be queen! Come on, let’s find some crowns. I’m sure you guys have something around here that’s appropriate.”

They spent the next few hours until dinner making flower crowns out of the bougainvillea he had grown (which weren’t the best for this type of thing, but that’s what magic was for) and using blankets as royal capes so that the three of them could be queens. At one point, as they were donning their crowns, Nora came out with snacks for them and set the plates out on a blanket in the fresh-cut grass. It was a mild day and the sunlight was warm, meaning that even Stiles with his human blood wasn’t uncomfortable eating outside.

“You’re good with them, you know,” Nora told him quietly as Aurelia chased Marcus through the grass, squealing with laughter.

Stiles shrugged, blushing. “It’s not hard. They’re great kids.”

“They are,” she agreed, smiling over at them. “But I meant how you treat them like they’re just smaller adults. You don’t baby them or talk down to them. You answer their questions, indulge their imagination. I don’t think you realize how uncommon that is.”

Stiles frowned. “It shouldn’t be. I mean, they’re people, just, you know, smaller, like you said. And they should hold onto their imagination while they have it.”

Nora hummed in agreement. She stood and brushed a few stray blades of grass off her knees. “I’ll leave you guys to it then.”

“Wait!” He held out a flower crown he’d been making for her as they talked. Hers was mostly orange and white, with three crimson flowers on the front. 

“Thank you, Kazik.” When she smiled at him, he had a brief flashback to the way his own mother would smile at him, affectionate and fond. She placed the crown gently on her head and walked back to the house, looking more like a queen in her blue jeans and white t-shirt than any royalty he’d ever seen.

He asked Talia about the wards after dinner. As he’d anticipated, she immediately informed him that the house was already protected and that, while she appreciated his offer, it was unnecessary.

“All due respect, Alpha Hale, I am aware of the wards already on the house. They might do alright against a burglar, perhaps, if it were a human one, but at that point they’ve already messed up haven’t they? I mean, of all the houses in Beacon Hills.”

“What’s your point, Kazik?”

Stiles took a deep breath. “My point is that the wards are weak. I’d like to do better, if you’d allow me the privilege. I can explain to you my design, how I’d like to do it, and I’d even be willing to speak with the caster who put up the original...protections.” He tried not to put as much disdain as he felt on the term ‘protections’ to describe what Deaton had done, but it was a difficult feat. “Please, Alpha Hale.”

She examined his face carefully, as though trying to ascertain why this was so important to him. To be fair, as far as she knew the Hales were just a strange pack offering him temporary refuge. She probably expected a heartfelt thank you card, maybe a small parting gift, not heavy-duty magic safeguards. He watched as something seemed to click in her mind, though he couldn’t imagine what it could be, before she nodded at him once.

“Alright. I’ll allow it. Is it necessary for you to speak with the one who placed the original wards or can you place your own without doing that?”

“Either way. It’s no issue.” Strange that she didn’t want him talking to Deaton. Although, he did seem to remember that no one else in her pack knew who he was either. He still thought that was an odd practice to have in a werewolf pack.

“Okay. When will you do this?”

“I can do it tonight, if that’s alright. Do you want me to go over everything first?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. To be honest, I’ve never really understood magic anyway. I would prefer that someone accompany you, though, if that won’t interfere with your ritual. Peter knows quite a bit about magic.”

Stiles was aware of how much Peter knew about magic. “Yeah, that’s fine. Peter, you good to go?” he asked, not raising his voice since he knew the wolf could hear him.

Peter came down the stairs and gestured toward the door. “After you, little mage.”

Stiles had decided that the anchor belonged right at the front door. It was where everyone came and went, where they greeted each other after long periods of absence, where they recognized family and welcomed friends. He stepped over the threshold and gestured for Peter to wait inside for a moment. It was the perfect time to do this, since everyone was currently at home. Even Julian had returned from his day with his girlfriend, Melissa, and was upstairs playing videogames with Derek.

Stiles knelt in the doorway and lifted the mat to place his right hand on the wooden floor beneath. He closed his eyes and imagined the crucial sigil, the one that would begin the knot. It had taken him over two weeks, originally, to create this sigil and he’d been quite proud of the result. To him, it represented fortitude, unity, resilience, cunning, and stability. This was the base of the entire ward, which he’d have to return to at the end to complete, and he always thought of it as a castle wall. Well, if the castle were Hogwarts and could react to attacks against it in clever, sometimes underhanded ways. 

He opened his eyes once he was done, checking the glowing, silver mark quickly before dropping the mat and jerking his head to let Peter know it was okay to follow him now. Peter quirked an eyebrow at the silent command, but followed anyway. Stiles led him to the four corners of the house, moving clockwise, setting sigils at each point. These were different, more traditional, but they would feed into the anchor and each other to create a complex web of protection. That wasn’t to say that he necessarily followed the rules on how a ritual like this was typically done. Normally, a caster would use only one, possibly two runic alphabets. Stiles used four, technically, since two of the sigils were ones he’d made himself. On one corner, he placed Nordic runes for defense, battle, home, and victory. At the next, he used Icelandic staves.  _ Lukkustafir _ , to bar any with ill intent,  _ Skelkunarstafur _ , to strike fear into the hearts of enemies, and  _ Stafur gegn galdri _ against magical attack. On the third corner, even though he didn’t usually work as much with them, he placed Celtic symbols. Given the family ties to Ireland, plus the fact that their pack symbol was a triskele, it would lend more power to the marks as they would bond with the family itself. He started with the Dara knot, as a symbol of endurance and strength, but also as a means to tie his ward to the land. The next sigil was fun to bring to life and he placed his hand slightly higher on the siding to call forth the image of the Celtic dragon, its tail twisting into a triquetra, to symbolize power, energy, and unity. He finished with the triskele, imbuing it with every definition of  _ pack  _ and  _ family _ he knew, particularly those he was familiar with from Derek, Peter, and Cora. The spiraling mark flashed silver, the same as the others, before shining a brilliant gold, burning steadily as he moved on to the final few sigils.

The sigil he made on the final corner was the most complex of the entire design, including the anchor. It had been inspired after a long afternoon talking about math with Lydia, which had devolved into the topic of sacred geometry. From there, he’d begun experimenting with different sigils and geometric patterns, eventually discovering that by using the Seed of Life, the symbol of creation, he was able to push any sigils he wanted into it and mold new meaning. Thus, he’d perfected a design that encompassed fire- and bullet-proofing, protection against bad luck, and general healing and rejuvenating capabilities to keep the warded territory healthy.

Peter trailed him silently as he worked. Stiles heard him make a soft noise of intrigue as he finished the last corner, but Stiles ignored him in favor of returning to the front door. He knelt again in the same position, this time with Peter at his back, and placed his hand once more over the still glowing sigil. He closed his eyes and imagined completing it, imagined it connecting with the others and encasing the entire house under an impenetrable shield. He added the feeling of  _ family _ ,  _ bond _ ,  _ loyalty _ ,  _ pack _ , to the mark and opened his eyes to watch it burn bright silver. He’d poured so much magic into it that blue sparks were jumping across the lines, etching the sigil deeper into the wood and working the entire system of magical defense down into the very foundation, pushing it up into every beam and roof tile.

Stiles sat back on his heels with a gasp once he was finally able to let go. The runes all faded beyond non-magical perception, their glow dimming into invisibility. Peter reached out quickly and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder before he could fall over.

“Thanks,” Stiles muttered. He managed to stand, only a bit unsteadily, before spinning on his heel to head for the tree line.

“Hey, woah.” Peter grabbed his arm before he could descend the porch steps. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Stiles frowned at him in confusion. “I’m not done. That was just the house.” Of all people, he didn’t expect to have to explain this to Peter. Sure, he’d done all he could to make the house defensible, but what if someone stepped outside? What if someone already was outside the house when they were attacked? They needed a larger area of control.

“Not tonight,” Peter said firmly. Stiles opened his mouth to argue but Peter cut him off. “You’re dead on your feet and the sunlight is almost gone. No one’s in danger tonight. Sleep. Finish in the morning.”

“I’ve done a lot more with a lot less,” Stiles argued, not quite sure if his words made sense. He might be drained, but he still had enough for this task. He knew his limits. Mostly.

Peter met his eyes evenly. “I’m sure you have. But right now, you don’t have to. Go to sleep, Kazimierz. Finish in the morning.”

Stiles sighed in defeat and let Peter drag him back into the house. He grumbled all the way to his room, since apparently Peter didn’t trust him to not just go running back out to do magic.

Peter deposited him in his bed, tugging off his shoes for him when Stiles’ body went boneless upon introduction with the soft cloud he’d been given to sleep on instead of a mattress. Peter pushed his legs onto the bed and sternly told him once again to sleep before heading to the door.

“Thanks, Peter,” Stiles managed. His voice was weak and muffled by the pillow, but he was sure the wolf had heard him anyway. Peter flipped off the light and Stiles was asleep before the door was even fully shut.


	5. The Strange New Houseguest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a filler chapter (sorry) from the perspective of some of the Hales as they react to Stiles' presence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: violence, gore - if you've stuck with me so far, you know I'm not squeamish. If you are, be wary of when Stiles starts to talk about the kelpie
> 
> Did I actually look up calendars from 2004, as well as moon cycles for this? Absolutely.

**Saturday, October 30** **th** **, 2004**

Talia stirred the eggs and kept an eye on the bubbling pancakes as she waited for her family to wake up and let their noses lead them to the source of food. It had been over a week since they had found that lost mage in the woods and Talia was surprised by how well he seemed to fit in with her pack. He never insinuated himself into anything, never took for granted his place here, but he seemed to treat every interaction as a privilege and he was so great with Peter’s twins. He was snarky and sarcastic, still so full of life after everything the young man had gone through. It filled her with a bittersweet pride. Occasionally she looked at him and wondered if her own children would fair so well in his shoes, if she had raised them to be so strong, but then that would require her to imagine a life where she wasn’t there to protect them and she shied away from those thoughts before they could fully form.

Kazimierz healed quickly from whatever had happened to him, not that he was very forthcoming with those details other than the fact that hunters were involved.  _ Hunters _ going after children. She shook her head and flipped one of the pancakes on the griddle. Not to mention the stories the boy had told her children about his life before any of that. A pack made of children! The injustice of it sparked a fierce, protective rage in her. It was too late to go back and save all those other children that had been lost, but she could do everything in her power for the one who had miraculously come under her care.

“Mmm, smells good, Mama Hale.” Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

“Morning, Kazik. Did you sleep well?” In a house full of werewolves, it was hard not to notice the frequency of Kazimierz’ nightmares. He did his best to avoid screaming, but his anxiety, his ratcheting heartbeat and breathing, the sheer level of terror that rolled off his sleeping form woke everyone in the vicinity anyway. Talia wished she could do more to help him.

“Better than usual,” he answered her with a smile. She smiled back, but took careful note of the dark purple under his eyes.

“I already made one pot of coffee. Go ahead and get yourself some and then you can help me cut up the fruit to set on the table.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” he responded, already reaching for a mug. His obsession with caffeine was a bit worrisome, but she let it go. Despite the nickname he’d chosen for her after she’d insisted that he stop calling her ‘Alpha Hale’ all the time, she recognized she wasn’t actually his mother and her interference in his eating habits would likely not be welcome. Not to mention the fact that she was fairly certain he never got more than four or five hours of sleep in a night and caffeine was the only thing that kept him going.

They worked together in silence for a few minutes, Talia filling a large pan with scrambled eggs and completing a mountain of pancakes while Kazimierz sliced apples, strawberries, and melons to put on a platter. She watched out the corner of her eye as he artfully arranged the fruit.

“You know that your masterpiece will only be destroyed by hungry wolves in a few minutes?”

He laughed and kept strategically placing strawberries. “I know. It’s just fun. And nice to look at, you know?” He looked over at her with a grin. “Maybe they’ll appreciate it for two seconds before they dig in and eat everything.”

Talia poured the last of the batter onto the griddle and watched him as he finished his task and leaned against the counter to finish his coffee while the last of the food cooked. He was so young, all long limbs like a newborn colt, yet his eyes held a kind of hard flint that reminded her of her brother. Peter had taken a shine to him immediately, despite his initial reservations about bringing a stranger in the house. All it had taken was one meal shared with him and Peter had decided to basically adopt the boy as his own. Sometimes, though, Talia would catch Kazimierz staring at Peter and his family with the most heartbroken look on his face, like their happiness was something he could never touch, never be a part of. It made her want to wrap him up and give him hot chocolate and keep him safe from the world from now on. No teenager should ever be able to look that sad.

Breakfast was a rowdy affair, as it always was on Saturdays when the whole pack was there to share it. It had been even louder since Niamh had come to visit from Ireland in September and then of course with Kazimierz, group settings were rambunctious events filled with the twins vying for his attention against her own children who practically hung off him trying to pry out stories of his adventures with his old pack. He didn’t seem to mind the attention.

“Alright, alright!” he told Laura, laughing at her pouting face. “One story. You’re all going to get sick of them before long.”

“No, we won’t,” Derek argued, sounding far younger than his sixteen years in his petulance. Talia smiled at him, shaking her head.

Kazimierz hummed and rubbed his chin, thinking. “Oh! Okay, I’ve got one. So, first of all, have any of you ever fought a kelpie?”

Everyone at the table shook their heads, except her husband.

“Ronan?” she asked, surprised. He’d never told her this story. “You’ve fought a kelpie?”

Ronan shrugged. “Once. I was visiting Scotland at the time and saw a woman dragged off the side of a bridge. I dove in after her and basically frightened the creature into letting her go. I don’t think he expected a werewolf to swim into his lair.”

Kazimierz laughed. “No, I expect not. Unfortunately for us, the one we fought was a bit less intimidated by teeth and claws.”

“So what happened?” Julian asked, leaning forward. It was nice to see him so engaged. Julian was such a shy boy, only really speaking to the pack, his two friends from school, and his girlfriend. Yet, with Kazimierz, he was almost open, talkative. For that alone Talia felt like she owed the boy quite a lot.

Kazimierz shoveled a bite of pancake into his mouth before answering. “Well, it all started the way every case of the supernatural started for us: dead bodies showing up in the woods. Or parts at least.”

_ “Gross,” Lydia said succinctly, looking over the crime scene photos. Stiles was forced to agree, looking over the glossy, high color photos of bloody, greenish entrails strewn along the edge of a rippling lake. _

_ “Do we have any idea what is doing this?” Derek’s voice was just the right amount of commanding, pulling everyone’s attention back to the problem at hand.  _

_ Stiles shook himself out of the horror to respond. “There’s quite a few creatures that like to leave pieces behind, unfortunately. Even the location doesn’t necessarily narrow it down as much as I’d like. Berberokas, for instance, dwell in lakes and like to munch on innocent humans. Then there’s also kelpies, rusalki, bunyips, kappas....” He trailed off, thinking. “Then again, rusalki usually don’t actually  _ eat _ their victims, just drown them, and if anything is found it’s the whole body. And bunyips don’t waste anything, so I think we can rule those two out.” _

_ “It’ll help once we know who the victims are,” Lydia added, joining his brainstorming. _

_ “Definitely,” Stiles confirmed. “If it’s only adult men, for example, we know it’s not kelpies, since they go after children or women. Kappas, unfortunately, also go after children.” _

_ “And the other one?” Isaac asked. “The berber-something?” _

_ “Berberoka. Yeah, they’re not really picky.” He picked up the crime scene photos again. “If it were one of them, though, I would think we’d see more disturbance in the area, given how they hunt. They suck all the water into their body and then when their prey gets close, they release the water and drown them. Then they eat them.” _

_ “Lovely,” Jackson said sarcastically. The looks on everyone’s faces said that they agreed. _

_ “So, we’ve narrowed it down to either a kappa or a kelpie?” Stiles’ dad asked. They had a system these days. Anything that looked hinky, the Sheriff would bring it to Derek and Stiles first for a consultation, to see if the crime was supernatural-related. If it was, then they would bring the rest of the pack in on it. Stiles had hated that his dad needed to be a part of all this at first, but now he couldn’t be more grateful. And their relationship had never been better. _

_ “Keepin’ it in the k’s,” Stiles said brightly. “I think so, yeah. Like Lydia said, we’ll know more once forensics gets back with the identities of the victims. Unfortunately, there’s quite a few missing persons in the area, all of varying ages and sexes, so it’s hard to tell.” _

_ After that, there was nothing more they could do until they got the results. Two days later, they met again in Derek’s loft, spirits even lower than before. _

_ “Children,” Scott whispered, horrified. Allison placed her hand on Scott’s shoulder gently, but it was clear that she was just as shaken. _

_ “I’ve been looking over the evidence again the past two days,” Stiles said, proud of how little his voice shook, “and I’m fairly certain it’s a kelpie.” _

_ “Why?” Derek asked. It wasn’t aggressive, just curious.  _

_ “For one, if kappas kill at all, they’re more like vampires. They go for the blood of their victim, they don’t actually eat them. Second, kelpies are kind of known for specifically leaving the entrails of their child victims on the shore as a warning. I guess it’s like marking their territory or something, I don’t know.” _

_ “Alright,” Derek said, easily accepting this argument. “So how do we fight a kelpie?” _

_ That was how the nine of them ended up in a half-circle around the small lake, more of a glorified pond really if you asked Stiles, with all the werewolves shuffling their weight on four paws nervously while Allison held her bow at the ready, arrow point glinting in the sun. Stiles had his trusty bat with him, now modified to be covered on every square inch with runes for strengthening and accuracy, as well as specific sigils for fighting spirits, werewolves, and every other creature he could feasibly guard against. The bat was soaked in wolfsbane, foxglove, mistletoe, plus the same potion that Maira had shown him for making her knives. It had taken him a month and a half to complete it. Time to see if all that effort was worth it. _

_ They were all hidden by the trees, watching carefully as Lydia paced the water’s edge. Given that none of them was actually a  _ child _ , their best bet was to lure the creature out with the promise of a seemingly vulnerable woman. Even if the idea of Lydia ever truly being vulnerable was laughable. Still, everyone was tense as they waited, Jackson especially. Luckily Stiles was close enough to occasionally reach over and run his fingers through Jackson’s pale fur in reassurance. _

_ Soon enough, a man emerged from the depths of the lake, striding powerfully toward Lydia with purpose. His hair was long and black, dripping down his naked back. Stiles could see pieces of what looked like seaweed or possibly kelp - ha! - woven into the wet strands. He wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, which Stiles supposed made sense even if it was unnerving. He was powerfully built, tall and broad shouldered with muscles that looked chiseled from stone rather than natural. His chest was covered in slick, black hair that drew Stiles’ gaze down further to his happy trail that led to, yep, wow. Stiles shook himself and focused.  _

_ Lydia spun and looked at the kelpie finally, having let him approach without acknowledging his presence. He startled and froze, his dark eyes meeting hers like a deer in the headlights. She took a step back from the water, prompting him to take a step forward in response. Neither of them said a word, but continued this slow dance away from the slowly lapping water, holding eye contact the whole way. It seemed that the kelpie was just as unnerved by her attention as they all were by his appearance. Lydia led them both backwards until finally she cried, “Now!” _

_ Six wolves flew from the tree line simultaneously, growling savagely. Derek was the first to reach the kelpie, his black fur making him look like a shadow even in the brightness of day as he sped impossibly fast toward the creature. Jackson was close behind, fueled by fear for his girlfriend, and latched his jaws onto the kelpie’s calf a mere moment after Derek’s teeth sunk into the man’s shoulder. The kelpie screamed and tried to shake them off, but both wolves held on tight. _

_ Stiles could see where Allison was waiting with her bow, watching for an opening. He’d read that silver could take down a kelpie, but they couldn’t rely on that information being correct. They needed to have a backup plan, which mainly consisted of ripping the creature apart and burning the pieces. _

_ Stiles was pulling Lydia back behind an oak tree just as the kelpie finally managed to dislodge his attackers, which now included Erica, since she’d grabbed onto his wrist and had nearly taken his hand off with her teeth. _

_ The instant the wolves were far enough away, the kelpie shook and transformed. Stiles had no idea how children could look at this beast and want to get close to it, let alone try to ride it. It was massive, at least twice the size of Derek and he was a lot larger than your regularly scheduled wolf. Its pelt was inky black and still dripping wet, despite how long it had been out of the water at this point. There was an almost greenish tint to it, as though algae grew in its hair. Its mane and tail were full of twisted kelp. Even with Stiles’ human nose, he could tell that the creature smelled of bracken and still water. It was unpleasant, to say the least. _

_ The worst, however, was when Stiles glanced down and saw its hooves. They were backwards. It seemed so wrong, looking at them, that Stiles’ brain refused to compute for a full thirty seconds, staring at the kelpie’s feet.  _

Why _ , he asked no one, in his head,  _ why the fuck would this thing be built like that?

_ Then, the kelpie opened its mouth and snapped at Erica, who hadn’t backed up far enough during the transformation, and Stiles saw that perhaps the hooves actually  _ weren’t _ the worst part because the horse had freaking shark teeth. As in, two rows of sharp, pointy, deathly teeth.  _

_ An arrow flew across the open space and embedded itself in the horse’s chest. A second soon followed, landing a mere two inches from the first. The kelpie neighed frantically, sounding entirely too human for comfort. It reared up on its back legs and kicked before landing heavily, breathing hard. Oh, it was pissed now.  _

_ The kelpie moved faster than Stiles thought possible. Faster than the wolves, which was terrifying. Its movements were unnatural, almost acrobatic in how it jumped and twisted, lunging and biting at any wolf in close enough proximity.  _

_ Stiles’ job, technically, was to guard Lydia and offer backup if absolutely necessary. Watching a murderous horse take a chunk out of Boyd’s flank, however, was not something he could passively sit through. With a war cry, Stiles launched himself out from behind the tree and flew at the kelpie, using his magic to enhance his movements. _

_ His bat struck the kelpie’s head with a resounding  _ crack _ and Stiles ducked and rolled with his momentum until he popped up to stand next to Derek, who snarled at him in a way that Stiles took to mean,  _ ‘You were supposed to stay with Lydia, you idiot.’

_ “Yeah, I know, I know, Sourwolf, but did you see that? I’m awesome. You need me.” _

_ Derek huffed and focused back on the fight. Erica and Jackson had taken advantage of the kelpie’s dazed state and had bitten the creature’s back legs, effectively hobbling it. Both wolves were startlingly pale against the oil slick black of the kelpie’s coat. Scott launched himself on top of the kelpie’s back, locking his jaws into its neck. Even with three wolves clinging to it, the kelpie remained standing, dancing around on its demonic hooves. Boyd was still healing from the savage bite he’d received, but Isaac felt free to leave him now that he was no longer in immediate danger, joining his pack to sink his teeth into the kelpie’s forelock. _

_ Derek struck the killing blow. He ran straight for the kelpie’s throat, breaking the arrow shafts with his body as he tore into the kelpie and silenced its screams. The wolves hastily released the creature and jumped away as it fell, coming to stand behind their Alpha. Boyd stood on slightly shaky limbs and joined them, the final stages of healing completing before their eyes as he brushed his uninjured side against Erica’s. _

_ Stiles jumped and cheered. “Go team! That’s the way to do it! Yeah! I think this deserves treats. Ice cream, everyone? After we dispose of the body, of course.” _

_ The others shifted back and started adding their input. Erica requested mint chocolate chip. Boyd wanted vanilla. Jackson wanted strawberry, but only if they got it from the creamery and not the grocery store, because he was pretentious like that. Isaac wanted to know if they could at least shower before celebrating, to which Stiles assured him that of course they would, they weren’t heathens. _

_ “And how are we going to get rid of the body, exactly?” Scott asked, looking at the kelpie apprehensively. _

_ “Weren’t you listening at the meeting?” Lydia asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Stiles said if the silver didn’t work, we needed to cut it up and burn it.” _

_ “Wonderful,” Isaac muttered. _

_ “The sooner we get it done, the sooner we can get ice cream,” Allison said reasonably, and the others begrudgingly agreed. Together, they properly disposed of the kelpie corpse before heading back to the loft. _

_ “Since I didn’t actually get any blood on me, I can go get the ice cream while you guys shower,” Stiles offered. “Let me just make sure I got everyone. Mint choc, for Catwoman, vanilla for Boyd, strawberry for the lizardman -” _

_ “Stiles, what have I told you about -”  _

_ “Isaac, I’m assuming you’ll want rocky road, and Lydia, darling, raspberry dark chocolate for you?” They both nodded. “Alright. And Scott, my man, I know you want butterscotch.” He turned to Derek, who was standing with one eyebrow raised almost challengingly. Stiles wanted to scoff. As though Stiles didn’t know what he wanted. “Alpha, dearest, one scoop of chocolate and one scoop of black cherry for you?” _

_ Derek’s eyes widened as he nodded. Stiles grinned back and clapped his hands together sharply. “Alright, everyone. Get your furry butts home and cleaned up so we can eat our hearts out and enjoy a well-deserved rest after your spectacular performance tonight. Beacon Hills is once again safe because of you all! I’ll see you at home in about an hour and a half or so, since I’ve got to go all the way out to freaking Tolville for these.” _

_ He waved and climbed in his Jeep, not watching as everyone tried to figure out who was riding with whom before driving off. It had been a good day. No one from his pack died and even though Boyd had been injured, he was healed by the time the fight was over. Stiles literally could not ask for a better outcome. He turned up the radio and sang along all the way to the creamery. _

“Kelpies sound awful,” Cora said with a shudder. Talia couldn’t help but agree. Shapeshifting demon horses were not high on her list of creatures she’d like to meet.

“Eh, actually it was kind of cool once you got over the fear of imminent death. I mean, an aquatic horse with shark teeth? It’s one of things that makes me think if there is a God he or she was tripping balls when they made earth, you know?”

“Kazik!” Talia admonished, before she could stop herself. There were young children at the table, he should know to watch his language.

“My apologies, Alpha Hale,” he said, slipping back into formality at the reprimand.

“It’s alright, Kazik. Just please, pay attention to your audience.” She nodded her head meaningfully toward Aurelia and Marcus who were both watching Stiles with rapt attention. He ducked his head in acknowledgment.

“Why did you call that one boy ‘lizardman’?” Laura asked. Talia was impressed. It was a detail she had missed in the telling of the story. This was why her daughter would make a good Alpha one day.

“I did?”

“Yeah, you said that afterwards, you had to drive thirty minutes out of town because ‘the lizardman’ was too good for celebratory grocery store ice cream.”

He laughed. “Oh, yeah. That’s a funny story actually,” Kazimierz said, in a tone that made Talia think that the story wasn’t humorous at all. “When Jackson was first bitten, he was going through some pretty severe emotional issues. He ended up turning into a kanima and was controlled by a couple of psychopaths for a while. We killed him, then brought him back to life and Lydia healed him with the power of love. It was very dramatic.”

“You have led an extraordinary life,” Peter said, while everyone was still recovering from this latest revelation into Kazimierz’ past. Kazimierz smirked back at Peter and lifted his coffee cup in a mock toast.

“That I have, Peter. That I have.”

✮ᚢᛏᛉᛜᛊ✮

**Wednesday, October 27** **th** **, 2004 -** **_the day before the full moon_ **

Derek didn’t quite know what to make of Kazik. At first glance, he seemed like someone who should be weak, prey. He was all long, lean limbs and wide, amber eyes like a deer, waiting to be taken down. Yet, his bearing and his behavior suggested the opposite. There was a ferocity and power under his skin that was magnetic. It was his paradoxical nature that Derek blamed for how he’d acted the first time he’d met him, when his mother had sent him upstairs to wake their strange houseguest for dinner. He’d taken one look at the previously panicking boy and had forgotten all about the Paige-shaped wound in chest and the way he’d been trying to fill it with the surprising, yet gratifying attention from his sophisticated, beautiful teacher. All he saw was pale skin and a slightly upturned nose and tiny, scattered moles like constellations. 

Kazik hadn’t stopped being confusing since that moment. He would laugh and tell stories with the pack, but always held himself apart from them, as though he couldn’t allow himself to actually get close. Oddly, he seemed most comfortable with Uncle Peter, and Derek had caught them speaking in the library behind the soundproof walls on multiple occasions, heads bent over books or pages of scrawled notes.

No, Derek didn’t usually have an excuse to visit the library, but that was Kazik’s favorite room in the house so it was only natural that he would look for him there. If that meant that he’d spent more time in that room in the past week than he had in his previous sixteen years of life, then, well, that was really no one’s business but his own.

Then there was the way Kazik acted at school. He’d walked beside Derek and Laura with his back straight and his head held high as they marched through the front doors, but Derek could tell that the confidence was just an act. It made him want to comfort him somehow. On impulse, he’d brushed his hand down Kazik’s back in tactile comfort, the same way he’d do with the rest of the pack, and was surprised when the mage leaned into it with a sigh, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

Derek and Laura took it upon themselves after that to constantly find Kazik throughout the day and brush against him, a hand on his forearm, a shoulder nudging his in passing, a hand on the back of his neck as he pulled a book out of his locker. Kazik relaxed a little bit further every time. It was clear that he didn’t like the crowded hallways, that he shied away from anyone else’s touch but theirs. He was subtle about it, merely clenching his jaw and moving away with graceful movements that were at odds with the way his limbs often flailed when he was mid-story. He was a constant contradiction, a puzzle where you couldn’t see all the pieces at once. It made Derek even more determined to get to know him.

Then today, Derek was walking down the hall to catch up to Kazik before his Spanish class when he saw one of the larger lacrosse players slam his shoulder into Kazik, sending him crashing into the lockers. It hadn’t been intentional, Derek could tell, since he had seen one of the guy’s buddies shove him playfully beforehand, sending him stumbling slightly in Kazik’s direction. Still, Derek could see Kazik’s lip lift in a wolfish snarl at the offense and he could tell that the mage was barely holding himself back from attacking.

“Hey, you okay?” Derek asked quickly, stepping up in front of him and blocking his view of the jock and his friends. He ducked his head to force Kazik to meet his eyes and was glad he did. The mage’s eyes were glowing silver, like liquid moonlight. He didn’t know much about magic or mages, but he guessed it was a lot like werewolves and that Kazik was about two seconds from losing control. His mom was always nervous in the days leading up to the full moon, checking in with them every morning and constantly texting them throughout the day to make sure they were in control. In the months after Paige’s death, Derek hadn’t been able to go to school for the entire week surrounding the full moon for months. He supposed that she’d thought Kazik would be okay since he wasn’t a wolf, but clearly that wasn’t the case.

“How about we go somewhere quiet for a second, okay?” he suggested in a low murmur, the same way he would if Cora or Laura were in this situation. Kazik nodded and lowered his eyes to avoid anyone seeing him.

Derek led him down the hall and out onto the lacrosse field. It still felt too open there, so he kept going until they were off the grass and into the trees, shielded from prying eyes by foliage and bark. 

“Okay, you’re alright,” Derek said as soon as they were far enough away. “Just breathe. It’s just us out here, no one else. You’re okay.” He kept saying nonsensical platitudes until he heard Kazik’s heartbeat return to normal, his breaths evening out. When he lifted his head, his eyes were no longer silver, but whiskey gold and filled with relief and gratitude.

“Thanks, man,” Kazik said. His voice was rough and he cleared his throat before continuing. “I haven’t lost control like that in a while. I guess it all just kind of got to me.”

“It’s okay. I get it.”

Kazik gave him a wan smile and leaned back against the nearest tree. Derek realized he’d been holding on to Kazik’s forearms this whole time when his hands slid down to the boy’s hands at the movement before he finally let go. He felt his ears flush slightly pink and he coughed to clear the dryness in his throat.

They stayed out there for all of fourth period, Kazik eventually recovering enough to tell Derek about a book series he was convinced Derek would enjoy. Derek watched his hands as they fluttered and gestured, knowing that he was definitely going to go to the library this week and borrow the first three books of the series just so he could talk to Kazik more about it.

✮ᚢᛏᛉᛜᛊ✮

**Friday, November 5** **th** **, 2004**

The little mage was even more impressive than Peter had first assumed. He had offered to assist him in selling magical charms and protections, trinkets really, things that nearly anyone with a tiny bit of power could do. Then he’d watched the boy put up new wards on the house and had drastically altered his original plans. 

This boy had  _ talent _ . It was far more than power he possessed, it was artistry. Peter couldn’t claim to be very good at performing magic on his own, but he’d spent years studying it and had met more than a few magic users of all kinds throughout the years. He knew what magic could do. Yet this teenager, this child, had woven a shield of such strength, grace, and cunning around Peter’s family that all he could feel was awe. 

So, Peter had immediately contacted several people who he knew would be interested in the items Kazik could create and then set several vital books in front of the kid and watched him go off. It was truly a wonder to behold.

Naturally, the boy had first started on a batch of protection charms. Peter hadn’t expected any less, given how much effort he’d put into the wards on the house and, later, on the rest of the territory. They wouldn’t be done for another week, but Peter could already tell they would be more powerful than any he’d encountered before, possibly just from the boy’s sheer force of will.

After that, though, was when the true genius began. Kazik soon dug into the book Peter had given him on wardrobe magic and immediately began experimenting. He’d asked Peter to take him shopping so that he could start with his own clothes (‘Just in case,’ he said) and wove charms to repel negative energy into three different sweaters, an enchantment for relieving anxiety into a dark red hoodie, a spell on his jeans to make them impervious to sharp objects, and a charm on his shoes to prevent him from stepping in anything unsavory. His favorite experiment so far, and Peter’s as well, was a charm he’d placed on a ring so that any time he flipped someone off, it gave them temporary bad luck.

Once he’d mastered that, the rest of the pack soon found that their own clothes and jewelry had a tang of magic that smelled like snow and cold ocean breezes. Peter found it a little strange that Kazik’s magic smelled like that, since he was fairly certain the mage was from California, which wasn’t exactly known for its snowy weather and cold oceans, but he supposed it had something to do with the boy’s personality. Either way, his family soon found that their daily activities and interactions went more smoothly, that school test a little bit better, that surgery went better than predicted, that client a little more agreeable than usual. Peter caught Kazik standing back, smiling contentedly while the rest of them discussed how well their week was going. 

All of Kazik’s charms sold beautifully. He sold versions of all the clothing and jewelry he’d made for himself and the pack, plus knives etched with runes so that they would never dull or break, black obsidian pendants blessed with nettle and yarrow for psychic and magical protection, herb sachets for preventing nightmares or to promote sleep. The list went on and on of the things that Kazik was requested to make and Peter soon had an overflowing spreadsheet of orders he was fielding from people requesting his services. It had only been three weeks. 

Then of course, on top of the magic business and his schoolwork, Kazik still found time to plot with him concerning the hunters. Peter was wolfishly pleased at how bloodthirsty the little mage could be in his plans. There was never any suggestion of mercy, never any hesitation or doubt. The only questions the boy had were about how to avoid witnesses and how to properly dispose of the body. Peter could have wiped away a tear in pride.

The moment he’d learned, however, that this hunter, this Kate Argent, was currently at the local high school posing as a teacher, getting close to the pups in his family, he’d nearly lost control. He’d felt his claws slip free and knew that his eyes were a blazing gold, his fangs sharp in his mouth as he scraped his chair back and stood to run straight to the school and rip the damn woman apart. How dare she try to go after his pack? How dare she go after one of their young? 

Only Kazik’s hand on his arm stopped him from shifting fully. He looked into the boy’s blazing eyes and saw his own rage and impatience mirrored there. It was that understanding that allowed him to take a deep breath and sheath his claws, his fangs receding.

They couldn’t go in half-cocked. They needed a plan. That’s what they’d been doing this whole time. Peter had sat back down and listened as Kazik continued to explain, laying out the details carefully. They would wait until all the pieces were aligned and then they would strike. Then, Peter would rip out her throat and watch her blood soak the earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I still manage to fit some foreshadowing in here? Possibly. Am I impressed with myself for that, since I wrote this instead of writing my essays for class? Also possibly.


	6. Alive and Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His magic was instinctual more than anything, a primal part of him, and any time he’d ever used it he felt it filter through him like lightning. Except in this scenario, he is both the lightning and the conduit, which is why he never gets burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Panic attack is described. I used one of my own types of attacks as a reference for realism 🙃

Stiles drummed his fingers on his legs as they waited in line, his weight shifting from foot to foot. Next to him, Derek reached out and softly ran his fingertips down Stiles’ forearm, trying to calm him. 

There wasn’t anything to be nervous about in particular. It was a bright, sunny Saturday morning and he was spending it with Derek at what had become his favorite place outside of the Hale house. Wicked Brew and Bakery was moderately sized, with large, comfortable arm chairs set around worn wooden tables and high backed booths that made you feel like you were in your own little space despite the public setting. The lights were soft, the music low and soothing, the colors muted. It was honestly the perfect place to come and work without being distracted. There was enough consistent sensory information for his brain to filter without overwhelming him or drawing his attention. He loved it.

They stepped forward as another customer finished paying, one step closer to the register. The truth was Stiles wasn’t nervous. His magic had been building in him for too long and it was making him jittery and hyper aware. He’d been creating the protection charms for the Hale pack, making items to sell for Peter, occasionally scrying on the Argents, but it wasn’t enough. With Maira, he was training three times a week, sparring, learning how to encourage plants to grow, healing injuries, stretching his magic to its limits. It was like...well, it was like asking a wolf to be a house pet. Eventually, something was going to go wrong.

The usual barista, the one who’d been working the first time Stiles had come into the café two weeks ago, greeted the two of them with a wide smile. It was the first time Stiles had noticed that Tristan’s canines were a bit longer than normal. Not quite werewolf length, but definitely sharper than his own.

“Hey, Tristan,” Stiles greeted him, smiling back. He tried to keep his bouncing in place to a minimum. Maybe he should start running again? That might help. Derek might even agree to go with him, if he asked. “My usual please. And also whatever Derek wants.”

“Sure thing, Kazik,” Tristan said, punching the price into the register. Stiles didn’t notice how Tristan’s smile faded as he turned to Derek, having already lost himself to his thoughts. The new moon was this Friday, meaning that he could perform the final ritual for the pack’s protection charms. He’d made this type of charm before, for his (past?) future pack, but that didn’t stop him from being anxious about the results. They had to be perfect. Flawless. He couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

After that first lesson regarding defensive magic, Stiles had immediately asked about protections. Hadn’t that bubble-whatever protected him? What if he could protect other members of his pack? Maira had been reticent, reiterating that he was not supposed to be skipping ahead in learning magic, but he’d persisted until she’d told him about amulets that could work as minor charms against certain types of harm. Apparently, they worked best when they were personalized toward the one you want to protect. 

_ “Personalized as in to  _ me _ it represents the person or like it means something personal to whoever I’m trying to protect?” _

_ Maira had given him a proud glance before answering, “The former.” _

Which was why he’d spent the first week upon arriving to the past, before the full moon, carefully deciding what materials, runes, and designs to use for each member of the pack. He couldn’t even just replicate the ones he’d made for future Derek and Peter, since their current counterparts were inherently different people. He still wasn’t sure that he’d gotten them all right. They’d  _ felt  _ right, but did that mean that they  _ were _ right? He frowned at the counter in front of him, scratching his nail across it absently. He wished he had someone he could ask. And by someone he meant Maira. Or his Derek. He supposed he could talk to Peter, but Peter would probably just tell him to trust his intuition or something.

“Kazik.”

Stiles looked up to see both Derek and Tristan looking at him. Clearly, they had been trying to get his attention. He gave them a small apologetic smile and quickly paid for their coffees.

“It’s alright,” Tristan assured him, taking the cash. “I know you get lost in your head sometimes.”

Stiles’ lips twisted into a grimace, though whether it was at being so transparent or at Tristan’s casual familiarity he didn’t know. He’d been coming to the shop nearly every day for the past two weeks, sometimes twice a day if he stopped by before school with Laura and Derek, but he’d never really spoken to Tristan outside of their small talk at the register. He knew that Tristan had a weak spark, but wasn’t sure if the man was even aware of it himself or, if he was, if he was able to tell what Stiles was.

Ignoring his discomfort, Stiles led Derek to what had quickly become his regular seat. It was in the front of the store, but due to the strange layout, the two chairs were almost completely hidden from view. The alcove was to the left of the entrance, behind two large potted ferns, and had the benefit of its own window facing the street. All the shop’s windows were one-way glass, enhancing the feeling of seclusion. Has Stiles mentioned that he loves this place?

He dumped his backpack on the floor next to the table and let himself fall gracelessly into one of the armchairs. The worn leather creaked as he landed and he sighed in contentment before reaching over to pull out his books. Across from him, Derek sat with far more composure before doing the same. Soon, they had their heads bent over the table, so close that occasionally their hair brushed together as they moved. Stiles was completing his calculus homework in between explanations of the political motivations behind the Cold War to Derek. Technically, since it was Saturday, neither of them needed to be working on homework at the moment, but Stiles wanted to get it out of the way as soon as possible and Derek had developed a habit of never saying no to spending time together ever since Stiles’ near breakdown last Wednesday. Not that Stiles was complaining, of course.

“Hey, Kazik.”

Both Derek and Stiles looked up to see Tristan walking up with their coffees and pastries. Stiles found himself getting a bit annoyed that the barista chose to address him, but not Derek. Wasn’t that unprofessional, or something?

Tristan set down the food and stepped back. Instead of immediately leaving, he just stared down at Stiles, as though he wanted to say something. He was smiling, not quite showing his teeth. His fingers were twitching by his sides.

“Is there something else?” Stiles asked. He couldn’t think of anything the barista might need from them. Some of the sections were reserved for parties of more than four people, but this wasn’t one of them so he knew they weren’t in the wrong for sitting here.

“Oh, I just, you left this on the counter when you were paying for your drinks earlier. I just noticed it.”

He handed Stiles a small wooden charm, slightly larger than a quarter. It was one of the ones that he had made to sell, something small enough to fit in someone’s pocket along with their change but still powerful enough to protect against minor damage. This one in particular was a protection against hexes. Stiles reached out and took the wooden disk from Tristan’s fingers, unease settling in his gut at the fact that the barista had so easily determined that the item belonged to him.

“Thanks,” he said stiltedly. He clutched the charm in his fist and set his hand on the table. He looked up into Tristan’s dark brown eyes and waited for him to walk away.

“No problem.” His eyes flicked from Stiles to Derek quickly before returning. “Enjoy your coffee.”

Stiles watched him walk away, the sense of unease refusing to lessen with distance. He’d been distracted at the counter, not really paying attention as he’d passed over the money to pay for their coffee. The charm was basically the same size as a coin and could be passed off as one if someone was distracted enough, he guessed. If they didn’t have magic. The problem was, he did have magic and the charm didn’t  _ feel _ like a coin at all. It was warm to the touch, almost electric, and no matter how scatterbrained he was he would never touch it and assume it was a quarter. So how did it end up on the counter?

“That was weird,” Derek said quietly, echoing Stiles’ thoughts.

Stiles snorted. “Tell me about it. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, the National Security Act of 1947, a.k.a the reason why the CIA and the Department of Defense exist.” He continued to explain, growing more animated as he talked, only occasionally remembering to take a sip of his coffee when his gesturing hands nearly knocked the cup off the table. Derek, to Stiles’ surprise, listened attentively, jotting down notes and smiling whenever Stiles became particularly exuberant. 

Eventually, Derek had to leave for basketball tryouts, leaving Stiles to spend the afternoon in the Hale library, reading about Druidic history and the different types of magic users. He hadn’t forgotten about the mysterious deaths of Remy and Charlotte Morrell nor the potential role Deaton’s potions had played in Stiles’ sudden Marty McFly impression. Everything even potentially important he wrote down in his notebook, which was slowly becoming overfilled with his thoughts, ideas, questions, plans...anything and everything that needed to be put to paper. He’d already filled one notebook, in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep, with stories of his past - the future. It helped reassure him that he wouldn’t forget his pack and everything he’d gone through, but also made sure that he wouldn’t forget the things he needed to prevent. 

He wasn’t stupid. None of the stories had names or even places. There were no dates. Even if someone went snooping and found it, they wouldn’t be able to tell more than the fact that his pack had gone through hell and came out stronger for it. 

Sunday, Stiles went for a run. Derek didn’t join him, since his aversion to early mornings was stronger than his desire to hang out with his newest friend, but surprisingly, Laura was waiting for him by the door when he got there, dressed in shorts and a tank top, her hair tied back. She seemed surprised at how fast they ran, and how far, but Stiles needed to expel his energy somehow and so he pushed his magic into his limbs and propelled himself to run harder. He’d never used it quite like this, but his magic was instinctual more than anything, a primal part of him, and any time he’d ever used it he felt it filter through him like lightning. Except in this scenario, he is both the lightning and the conduit, which is why he never gets burned. 

When they got back, Stiles was pleasantly exhausted, his muscles quivering in a way that tells him he pushed himself hard enough to definitely deserve a large breakfast and some rest. Laura bumped his shoulder as they climbed the porch steps and he grinned at her, pleased that they’d gotten to spend this time together. On the way in, he glanced at where Peter was standing in the kitchen, their eyes meeting. Peter jerked his chin toward the library, mutely indicating to join him there after his shower. Stiles nodded back and headed upstairs. 

The hot water felt like heaven on his skin and Stiles wanted to melt under it forever. He sighed into the spray and hung his head, his body and magic finally calm enough to allow him to feel the effects of two weeks of almost no sleep. He couldn’t help but fear that he was going to somehow fail and, despite all his efforts, the Hales were still going to die. Fire had started to feature prominently in his nightmares, along with Kate’s cocky grin that she seemed to perpetually wear. Sometimes, he was in the house with the pack, choking on smoke and crawling for an exit, desperate to save them from the inside. Other times, he was standing outside, frozen in place, unable to move or scream as he watched flames lick at the light blue house he’d come to love so much. Most often though, the majority of the dream faded away with the morning light, only to have the tiniest details plague him throughout the day: a field of bougainvillea burning, a charred hand reaching through a window, the sound of Marcus and Aurelia crying somewhere forever out of sight. He wanted this damn thing to be over.

He comforted himself with the minutiae of his and Peter’s plan. They had been subtly gathering information from the people buying Stiles’ charms and spelled items, verifying everything that Stiles had learned via his cyberstalking and adding new, crucial details. For instance, while he’d located Gerard in Texas, he hadn’t known that the man was there for some sort of hunter convention. An entire city full of hunters. Stiles shuddered. Forget his nightmares, real life was far more terrifying. In any case, the convention was a month-long affair that started the second week of October and would end this weekend, at which point Gerard would leave his lessons on How to be an Even Better Serial Murderer, graduate level, at which point he would be a free agent and less easily tracked. They would have a very small window of opportunity to strike between him being surrounded by his brethren and him being in the wind.

Stiles stepped out of the shower and toweled off quickly before getting dressed. The only downside of relying on Peter to buy him clothes? Allowing the man to have a say in his fashion choices. It was nearly as bad as he imagined it would be to give Lydia free reign over his wardrobe. Stiles struggled into the tight black jeans before pulling on the dark red sweater. He’d put his foot down regarding V-neck shirts, but had to admit the sweaters were actually really comfy and once he got used to wearing things that weren’t a size too large, it didn’t make him as uncomfortable as he expected. 

After pulling on a pair of soft black socks (cashmere, because Peter was a bougie bitch), Stiles galloped down the steps and walked into the library to find the man peering into the shoebox that held all of the unfinished protection charms for the pack.

“Which one’s mine?” Peter asked with a smirk, not looking up. Thankfully, he knew better than to actually touch any of them yet, but it still irritated Stiles that he would take them out without asking. Stiles was regretting not hiding them in his room. Not that they’d really be any safer in there.

“Which one do you think?” Stiles challenged, closing the door behind him.

Most of the charms were some sort of necklace, but for Peter, Stiles had made a ring out of hawthorn and silver etched with the Nordic runes tiwazᛏ, inguzᛜ, and algizᛉ, similar to the construction he’d done for the wards on the house. Peter’s anchor was his family; it was only right that his protections should draw on his connection to home and defense. 

Peter hummed, examining the box’s contents. “The ring?”

Stiles nodded. “Can you guess everyone else?” Honestly, this was a test of sorts. If Peter could guess all of them, then there was a fairly good chance that Stiles had done them well.

“The green stones...I’m guessing,” Peter paused, considering, “Talia, Laura, and...Cora?”

Stiles smiled and let out a relieved breath. Four down. Seven to go. “Yeah.”

Stiles came over to stand next to Peter, looking down at the half-finished charms. Using smooth, black cord, he had tied Dara Celtic knots to hold three malachite stones for Talia, Laura, and Cora. Together, the knot and the stone would not only protect against outside forces, but would also enhance their natural inner strength and provide them emotional protection against anxiety or stress.

“These are for my family,” Peter said confidently, pointing. Again, Stiles nodded.

Nora was already queen in her own right, so Stiles selected a perfectly round tiger’s eye and fitted it into a delicate net of silver set into a long chain. Tiny runes, difficult to see with the naked human eye, were etched into the stone with magic for strength, victory, and healing. As for her children, Stiles decided on the two halves of yin and yang. Cliche, perhaps, yet he couldn’t help but feel that it was apt. The twins were only two years old, and yet he’d already seen how they balanced each other like the push and pull of the sea and moon. When Marcus was quiet, Aurelia filled the silence. When Aurelia got frustrated, Marcus would pat her back with his small, clumsy hand and quiet her tears. He could even swear that he’d heard them speaking to each other in a language that was clearly not English, but some kind of twin-code that only they could understand. So he felt no shame over the triteness of the symbol as he carefully carved the labradorite and moonstone. 

“You’re really boosting my confidence over here,” Stiles told him, only half joking.

Peter gave him a small smirk before returning his attention to the box. “The bracelets are for Ronan and Julian. The tree for Niamh.”

For Ronan and Julian, he used black tourmaline bracelets, since neither of them seemed the type to wear necklaces. Each bead was engraved with a tiny rune, making him exceedingly grateful for magic because the thought of having to do those by hand was exhausting. He had a lot of fun making Niamh’s amulet, though. Hers was made of birch bark, which he’d collected himself, pressed together in layer after layer until it became compact and unyielding. He then whittled it into the shape of the tree of life, paying particular attention to the rhizomatic pattern of the lower half. Niamh’s aura always felt so grounded to him, like her roots were sunk deep into the earth. He thought of her love of Ireland and her easy nature as his knife moved in sure strokes over the wood, his hands steady under the influence of his magic.

The last charm he made was Derek’s. His magic seemed to know before he did that he was going to choose obsidian, his fingers brushing across the material before he’d even consciously realized he had made a choice. It would provide luck and confidence in addition to protection, and he’d immediately sunk into a trance-like state to start carving away at the material. The end product was something that resembled a military dog tag - no pun intended - with a raised carving on the front. The carving was of a wolf poised almost as if it were about to lift on its back paws, one paw already off the ground and its nose raised in the air to stare upwards at the scattering of stars gouged into the stone. Only one, perfectly diamond shaped star was raised in the same style as the wolf, directly above its muzzle. 

He supposed a wolf was a little on the nose, but there was something about it that made it forgivable. The wolf seemed almost lifelike. As though it was about to leap from the amulet at the slightest nudge, or better yet, like it was going to finish its leap toward that tantalizing star so close to its jaws.

Peter raised his eyebrows at him upon seeing the last charm. “I see,” he said vaguely.

“You see what?” Stiles asked, annoyed. “I know that the whole wolf thing might seem uninspired but it fits, okay? I can’t...I can’t really explain it.”

“I wasn’t arguing with you,” Peter said calmly. Stiles’ defensiveness dissipated as quickly as it had risen, even though he didn’t quite know what to do with Peter’s reaction. “Where is yours?”

“What?” Stiles blinked, not comprehending the question.

“There are only eleven charms in this box,” Peter said slowly. “I don’t see one for you.”

“Oh. I didn’t make one for me.” It hadn’t even occurred to him, to be honest.

Peter frowned at him in disapproval. “And why not?”

Stiles shrugged. “I forgot. It’s too late now anyway.”

Peter growled at him, but Stiles just put the lid back on the box and returned it to its place on top of the bookshelf that held the grimoires and books on herbs and plants. He knew Peter was upset, and if he let himself think about it he wasn’t too pleased with his mistake either, but like he said, it was too late. He could make a lesser one under the dark moon. It wouldn’t be as powerful as the ones for the pack, but they were the ones he was worried about, not himself.

“Okay, so,” Stiles said decisively, clapping his hands together to force the topic away from Peter’s disgruntlement. “Kate. Dying horribly. Planning. Let’s go.”

Peter narrowed his eyes at him in a way that promised that he wasn’t finished talking about Stiles’ apparent lack of self-preservation (he’d had that conversation, okay, and the outcome never changed) but started updating him on the latest information from his contacts anyway.

The good news was that Gerard was still in Texas, far away from California. The bad news was that, ideally, both he and his daughter would die at the same time, or at least almost the same time. Otherwise one or the other might try to get revenge or spook depending on how events unfolded. 

“I know a guy,” Peter announced vaguely, when Stiles expressed this concern.

“Okay,” Stiles said, drawing out the word to show just how little information was conveyed with Peter’s sentence. “I have several questions regarding that statement. You know a guy as in, a guy that will kill Gerard for us? Do you trust him? I guess that’s only two questions but they sort of branch off into more depending on your answers.”

Peter’s lips curled in amusement. “Gerard would be taken care of, yes. I trust them to get the job done.”

Stiles stared at him for a moment. “You would be so good as a mobster. Like totally Godfather worthy. You would be the guy to leave the horse head in someone’s bed.”

Peter’s smile widened. Stiles couldn’t decide if he was creeped out or awed. Or both. Both was good.

They both decided that it would be best if Kate died as far away from Beacon Hills as possible. Luckily, Peter’s connections were wide-ranging and were the type that did not ask questions. So when Stiles came up with the idea to set up some sort of teacher’s retreat-slash-training session across state lines in Oregon, Peter had just grinned at him sharply and picked up his phone to make it happen. Somehow, over the course of one afternoon, he managed to orchestrate a mandatory, three day event that with all expenses paid for all the high school teachers. Stiles had just gaped at him disbelievingly as he watched the plan unfold. The school was even going to give all the students the Friday off. 

“You terrify me,” he breathed reverently.

Peter had paused in his pacing, his phone still held to his ear while he waited for the final piece of the puzzle he’d built to fall into place. Then he smirked, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Thank you, little mage. That’s quite a compliment, coming from you.”

All that was left after that was Kate’s death itself. He and Peter had debated for hours over how to best accomplish this, both of them wishing to cause her as much suffering as possible, while also making it look like an accident. It occurred to Stiles that this level of premeditation and bloodthirst was not normal or possibly healthy, but he also remembered the look in (his) Derek’s eyes every time he managed to speak of his old pack. He remembered how the Peter of his future was so broken by pain and grief that he forgot who he was and remembered only the need for retribution and death. He remembered standing in the ruins of the Hale house, now so tall and soaked in laughter, choking on the ash that never quite seemed to fully disperse on the wind. He bent his head over their notes again and abandoned any last lingering doubts he may have had.

Monday saw him keyed up and irritable once again, the run from yesterday only acting as a release valve on his pent up energy. Stiles tossed his pre-calc book into his locker and pulled out his Spanish one before slamming the metal door shut. His fingers shook as he hefted his backpack higher onto his shoulder and turned to find Derek already there, waiting for him. His somber mood lifted slightly and he bumped his shoulder before starting off toward class. Derek smiled brightly at him in return and joined him, asking him lighthearted questions about his classes to cajole him out of the dark place he’d sunk into. The walk was only three minutes, but Stiles found himself smiling genuinely by the end of it.

His smile morphed into a satisfied, feline grin as they approached their classrooms. This was one of the few periods where their classes were actually close together and it just so happened that it was Derek’s English class. Taught by a certain blonde, deranged huntress. Stiles had noted with no small amount of vindication over the past two weeks how Kate, or rather  _ Ms. Sterling  _ had grown more and more dissatisfied with the level of attention she was receiving from her target. The first few days he’d been in school, he’d had to swallow bile as he watched her smile sweetly at Derek, her eyes hinting that she’d like to say something less than appropriate for a scholastic setting. Derek had always blushed and ducked his head, vacillating between shyness and bravado. The rage had built from there, hot coals banked higher and higher, and Stiles knew that he was close to losing control. It didn’t help that everything just seemed so  _ wrong _ , like he was in some shadow realm that was pretending to be Beacon Hills. The building looked exactly the same. The lockers were the same shade of dull grey, the floors hadn’t been redone since they were laid in 1952, and the gym still smelled like decades of layered sweat and desperation. Even Mr. Harris was still (already?) teaching, although he taught physical science to freshmen rather than chemistry, thank god.

The familiarity didn’t mean he could shake this unsettled feeling, though. There was something about it that dug under his skin and told him that this BHHS wasn’t  _ his _ BHHS. It was the atmosphere or the aura or the people or  _ something _ but it put his teeth on edge and made him hyper aware of every noise, movement, smell, and accidental brush in the hallway. He wanted to scream every second of those first three days.

So it was no surprise really that he lost control that day with Jerkface McGee. It was just a miracle that Derek had been there to make sure he didn’t blow up the building or fling the stupid jock to the moon or something else drastic. He was just suddenly  _ there _ , taking up his entire field of vision, blocking out everything but the smell of pack and safety, immediately taking him somewhere that he could finally  _ breathe _ . Stiles had wanted to kiss him in that moment. He was glad he had more self control than he gave himself credit for.

Since then, Derek had barely left his side during the school day except during classes. This should have been practically impossible, given their conflicting schedules and the fact that Derek was a year below him, but the wolf was nothing if not determined and he was there, at Stiles’ side, after every class to walk him through the halls. He’d even somehow managed to change his schedule so that they had lunch at the same time. Stiles had protested at this, knowing that it was too late in the semester to be making drastic changes, but Derek had assured him that he’d only moved his art class to the end of the day and got rid of his study hall. Still, it was incredibly touching and Stiles didn’t know how to handle a thoughtful, openly caring Derek, so he had just knocked his shoulder into Derek’s roughly and offered to study with him after school to make up for the lost study period.

The fact that Derek was spending so much time with him had multiple benefits. First, he got to spend time with Derek. Teenage Derek who smiled and laughed and had a dry, sarcastic sense of humor. Stiles got to learn all the little things he’d spent months trying to pry out of his Derek with only moderate success. He learned that teenage Derek still liked chocolate and black cherry ice cream, that he was naturally a polyglot and barely had to study for either his Spanish or German classes, and that, just like his older counterpart, he had a deep, abiding loathing for lima beans. Stiles was delighted by every new thing he learned - and every old thing he reaffirmed.

The second benefit of hanging out with Derek was watching the muscle in Kate’s jaw tick when Derek turned to say something to him rather than pay attention to her poorly concealed flirting. Stiles noticed Derek’s phone vibrate with texts during their study sessions, or just when they were spending time together, and was gratified every time Derek hit ‘ignore’. It felt like a victory each time. Kate began glaring at him as he passed her in the hallways and he smirked back at her, preening only slightly. He was careful to hide the majority of his malice in his eyes; no need for her to know he was after her just yet. All she knew was that he was the one who was stealing her favorite toy and she was throwing a tantrum. His magic stretched and coiled inside him, eager for the hunt, yet still patient. 

At first, when he’d been looking at all those files in the library that day, all Stiles had wanted to do was walk out of the building, find Kate, and kill her outright. Maybe set her on fire in some divine retribution. He’d had a moment of visceral imagination that he indulged in before remembering how delicate the situation actually was. Primarily due to how vulnerable Derek was if he kept responding to her smiles and her text messages, if he kept sneaking out of the house at strange hours and slipping off to her apartment. Then, of course, there was the fact that Kate was far from the only unstable hunter out there, even within her own family, and if she was killed in any way that could be tied back to the Hales then it would be open season on werewolves. They would be seen as having broken the “code” (even in his mind he couldn’t help but sneer at that term) and he wasn’t sure that even Chris would hold back from seeking revenge. Thus the careful planning session yesterday in the Hales’ soundproof library.

School ended without him consciously being aware of the passage of time. He jerked out of his thoughts of death and flames to shove his things into his backpack and join the horde as they rushed the halls to flee toward the exits. He managed to escape the flow once it reached his locker and he stared into the surprisingly neat interior, one hand clenching the door so hard the metal nearly cut through the skin.

He was supposed to be getting the books he needed for homework, he knew, but he couldn’t move. Everything was so  _ loud _ . Shoes squeaking against the tile floor, voices talking and laughing and shrieking, phones ringing and vibrating, music playing. Locker doors were slamming shut up and down the hall. He felt himself flinch minutely with each sharp metallic clang, despite their frequency. He could actually  _ feel _ his eardrums. The loudest noises made them ache and he found himself hunched in on himself with his hands clasped over his ears. He was exhausted and tense and he just wanted to curl up in a corner somewhere and sleep for about a week.

“Hey,” said a soft voice next to him. One of the only sounds he was willing to tolerate at the moment.

Stiles looked up from where he’d been practically folding himself into his locker and managed a weak smile in Derek’s direction.

“Let’s get out of here, okay?”

Stiles nodded and let Derek gently close his locker and pick up his backpack for him. Together they headed in the opposite direction of everyone else. Stiles noticed Derek texting out of the corner of his eye and realized he was letting Laura know that they wouldn’t be meeting her in the parking lot.

Derek took him out to the lacrosse fields again, walking him out past the empty, lined grass to the trees beyond. The farther they walked, the quieter it became and the more Stiles started to relax. They stood in front of the same tree as before for several minutes while Stiles calmed down before Stiles finally spoke.

“Thank you.” His voice sounded hoarse, almost as if he’d been screaming. “I’m sorry this keeps happening.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay, I understand.”

“You do? Because I don’t. I keep...losing control. And it sucks.”

Derek frowned at him, one hand coming up as though to touch his arm but stopping to hover before making contact, asking permission. Stiles nodded his consent and Derek slid his palm from shoulder to wrist before holding on loosely.

“I don’t know a lot about mages, or magic users in general,” he confessed, “but I do know about losing control. Do mages need anchors like werewolves?”

Stiles frowned back at him. “I don’t know. Peter says we do, but I was never told that. It makes sense though. And after what happened the other week, and then today…”

“Can you describe what happened today?”

“It was...loud,” Stiles said, making a face at how inadequate his words were. “I could hear everything all at once and I couldn’t block anything out or focus. I’m sure it’s not the same as it is for you guys, but it still wasn’t fun.”

“It sounds a lot like what it’s like for us,” Derek told him seriously. “If it’s just one of your senses doing that, the trick is to pick a different one and focus on that instead.”

“Like, just sniff something?”

Derek laughed. “I guess? Maybe less conspicuous. I was thinking more like, if sound is overwhelming, start identifying all the things you can smell just by breathing. Or start looking around at colors of things, shapes.”

“Like coming out of a panic attack.”

Derek shrugged. “I don’t really know about that, but if you say it’s the same then yeah.”

Stiles nodded. He’d learned every trick in the book for how to deal with panic attacks after his mom died. Some worked, some didn’t. Even the ones that worked didn’t work all the time, so it was best to have a few tried and true methods on hand. This one, the sensory identification one, was actually one of his favorites and worked most often if he didn’t have someone with him to talk him down.

They stood in silence for a few more minutes. Stiles leaned against the tree at his back, using the rough bark and Derek’s warm hand on his wrist and dual points of contact to keep him grounded. His breathing had steadied once they were away from the school, but now his heartbeat had slowed from its frantic race and he no longer felt like he was ready to crawl out of his skin.

“How was your art class?” he asked suddenly.

“It was good,” Derek replied. He had a small, shy smile on his face that made Stiles grin in return. “Started a new project.”

He never would have guessed it in his time, but Derek really loved art. And he was great at it. He’d let Stiles see some of his work, mostly some drawings, charcoals, and a few sculptures, and he’d been blown away by what he’d seen. Each piece had a completely different feel, yet was full of so much emotion Stiles had just wanted to stare forever. He’d especially loved one sculpture of a raven, its head tilted slightly to the side as if it were judging the viewer, or perhaps as if it held some secret it would never share. Stiles had gently touched the tips of his fingers to the intricately carved feathers and breathed out a sigh of amazement.

“Yeah?” Derek was far less shy now than Stiles was used to, but when it came to his art there was still a level of effort required to pull words out of him, like they got locked inside and Stiles needed to coax them out gently.

“Yeah.” When he glanced over, Derek was blushing a light pink. “It’s...well we’re supposed to do portraits. We have to choose three people. I was thinking maybe Laura, my mom, and...you. If that’s okay.”

Stiles was stunned. And flattered. “Yeah, of course. Draw me like one of your French girls,” he said in a faux-sultry tone, draping the arm that Derek wasn’t holding over his head dramatically and cocking his hip. 

Derek laughed and shook his head, but didn’t let go of his wrist or suddenly change his mind, for which Stiles was grateful. When Stiles straightened, Derek’s face was a deeper shade of pink than before. Stiles was caught between grinning like a fool and feeling confused beyond measure. Derek wanted to draw him? Or paint him? Then again, he’d also chosen his mother and his sister, so he was probably just choosing safe options.

Either way, Stiles was feeling well enough to go home now and told Derek as much. Apparently Laura had waited for them by the car, which was incredibly kind of her. Stiles smiled at her gratefully as they slid into the seats and she waved him off with a soft ‘shut up, Kaz,’ before starting the engine and backing out of the parking space.

When they got home, Stiles went straight to the room he was now starting to consider  _ his _ and not just the guest room, and flopped onto the bed in a graceless heap. He forced his muscles to relax until he was practically melted into the mattress, groaning. He wanted to sleep. He wished he could sleep. But even as he lay there, his mind wouldn’t stop running around in circles, his thoughts so unbearably loud that he instinctively put a pillow over his head even though it could do nothing against the noise. The loudest thought was a blazing neon sign flashing the date over and over: November 8th, November 8th, November 8th. Today was exactly two weeks before his mother’s death. Today was the day his mother tried to kill him on the roof of the hospital, thinking that his ten year old self was trying to kill her. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go up to that roof and try to stop it from happening, or if he just wanted to stay here and crawl under the covers and pretend like that little boy wasn’t him at all. 

Last week he’d finally gotten up the courage to go see her. He’d brought her a potted succulent, since she hated cut flowers, and sat by her bed while she slept. He’d gone far after visiting hours, to make sure he avoided himself and his dad, so everything was quiet in the ward aside from the beeping of machines and hiss of a ventilator two rooms down. He looked at her sleeping face, remembering the mother she was before the illness and missing her so fiercely it was a sharp ache in his chest. He wanted her to wake up so that he could speak to her and tell her everything he’d said to her headstone. He was terrified she would wake up and not recognize him, or worse, would recognize him and either hate him or fear him. He stayed with her until dawn and she didn’t wake once. He left when he heard a nurse start her rounds on the hall.

Stiles tossed on the bed for a few more minutes, agonizing over memories, fresh and old, of his mother’s face, before flinging himself from the soft confines and pulling out his notebook. In an ideal world he would have gotten a nap before dinner after the day he’d had and his recent lack of sleep. It was far from an ideal world, however, so he sat cross-legged on the floor and stared down at his notes.

On September 21, 1992, Remy and Charlotte Morrell were driving their silver, 1983 Toyota Corolla home from a local farmer’s market in their hometown of Warwick, Quebec, Canada. Police reports say that Remy, who was driving at the time, lost control of the vehicle and the car crashed into a tree off the side of the road. A sudden storm had blown in which, combined with the region’s seasonably low temperature, made for slushy not-quite-snowfall and slick roads. In a town with a population of less than five thousand, nearly everyone came out for the funeral. It was in their local newspaper, along with a photo of a much younger Ms. Morrell and Dr. Deaton. 

Stiles wondered if anyone else in the town knew about the Morrells and their Druidic roots (pun definitely intended). He couldn’t imagine it would be easy keeping something like that a secret in a town that small. Then again, he could also imagine the severity of the backlash if the revelation wasn’t taken well, as evidenced by the long and storied history of witch trials and, as he’d discovered, werewolf trials.

He stared down at his notes, feeling conflicted. Everything pointed to the crash being the result of a simple accident. No one could have predicted the storm and no matter how cautiously one drives, there is always the possibility of losing control against slick asphalt or other unexpected obstacles. He could imagine that it was difficult for Deaton after that, living in that town where everyone knew who he was and saw him first as the tragedy he suffered and as a person second. Stiles had lived that. If that was the case, he didn’t blame Deaton at all for wanting to leave and be someone else for a change.

There were still a few pieces that didn’t quite seem to fit, though. Questions that kept nagging at him, tugging at his mind. First, why did Deaton leave his sister behind? She didn’t change her name or even leave Warwick for years after the accident. Then there were the wards. The fire. The fact that Deaton shut out the remaining Hales after their tragedy and left them to struggle through alone. Where had Deaton been during the fire? Why didn’t he do more to protect the pack to which he was Emissary? The more he ruminated on all the scattered pieces, the more he came to realize that, in the future, Deaton seemed to have been almost  _ grooming _ Scott. It was like he chose Scott to teach and befriend, using him as a means of defense when Derek or Stiles would speak against him. Was it because he saw Scott as easily manipulated? Was it because he knew that Derek would fight back? Was Stiles just a paranoid bastard who was overthinking all of this?

He sighed and flopped onto his back on the carpet. Then, of course, there were the potions. Since he still hadn’t figured out how he got here, he had no way of knowing if Deaton’s potions were part of the cause. If they  _ were _ , was it on purpose? An accident? A happy coincidence? 

It irked him that he hadn’t seen the veterinarian once since coming to the past. Part of that was his own fault, since he could easily hop over to his office and walk in, but part of it seemed to be Talia. He knew that normally it was the Emissary’s job to evaluate and greet unfamiliar magic users on their pack’s territory, and yet Talia had not made any effort to arrange this meeting. In fact, she seemed to be going out of her way to avoid them interacting at all. Why?

Stiles was starting to give himself a headache thinking about all of this. He stared up at the ceiling and imagined the facts as actual puzzle pieces, trying to fit them together into a coherent image. Suddenly he remembered the dream he’d had right before waking up in the Hale’s living room for the first time. 

_ “We begin in the dark, and birth is the death of us.” _

He could still feel the blazing star against his skin, so hot his neurons thought it was cold at first until they finally got the message and he began to burn. In his memory, it was Deaton standing in the corner of that room watching him be set aflame. It was Deaton’s voice he heard in his head.

But what did it mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't picked up on this, I am absolutely the type that researches every detail of everything. So you wanna know about all the crystals and other materials used in this chapter? I gotchu. Wanna know other obscure facts that literally no one knows? Hit me up.


	7. The Moon is the Moon in All Her Phases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hales celebrate the new moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I am alive

Stiles picked Aurelia up and spun her around for, in his approximation, the millionth time. Every time he set her down and tried to direct her attention to a different game or toy, she pouted and crossed her arms and demanded that he continue his role as one-man carousel. He knew it was his fault for initiating the game in the first place, which started when Marcus had said he wanted to play superman. It had just...devolved into a challenge to see what the twins could come up with to have him make them ‘fly’. Stiles’ resolve to say no to Aurelia’s pleas was not helped by her brother’s deviously innocent, puppy dog eyes which looked up at him earnestly. Marcus was acting as her backup, nodding fervently whenever she made her request known, and wielding his wide blue eyes like weapons. Privately, he thought of Marcus as Aurelia’s little shadow. Anything Aurelia wanted, Marcus miraculously wanted as well. Anything she did, he copied. It would be interesting to see their dynamic as they continued to grow. 

Right now, however, he wasn’t sure how they both weren’t so dizzy they were on the floor. He certainly felt close to that point. Instead, they took turns reaching up for his arms and making grabby hands at him like the greedy monsters they were.

“Okay,” he announced, “one more time each and that’s it. I mean it.”

Aurelia pouted again but at his stern glare she relented and sighed dramatically. “Fine,” she said, sounding so much like her father during one of his melodramatic moments that Stiles had to swallow back a laugh. 

He was impressed by the two year old. She was incredibly smart for her age and picked up on things immediately, enjoying all the toddler-appropriate puzzles her parents bought for her and already starting to learn how to read. Someone only had to explain a word to her once before it became a part of her vocabulary. She and her brother had both been the type of babies to not say a word until, just before their second birthday, they both spoke in complete sentences. Apparently, Aurelia’s first sentence was a demand for juice. Marcus had then immediately chimed in with a “juice yes,” since whatever his sister had he had to have also. Marcus’ speech wasn’t quite as developed as his twin’s, but he was certainly more advanced than some other toddlers Stiles had met. Not that he knew incredibly many.

Their third birthday was coming up soon, only a little over a month away. He wasn’t sure how it was possible, but he was fairly certain he could tell how much they had grown even over the few weeks he had been here. Do all children grow this fast or is it just werewolves? With a sigh that feigned far more exasperation than he actually felt, Stiles reached down and lifted Marcus for the last time today. He put his hands on either side of his ribs and swung him around, raising and lowering him as they spun in a tight circle. All furniture and debris had been moved from the middle of the room, so they had space to play their little game. So far, the kids had been airplanes, monkeys, skydivers, birds, and Superman. For his last ride, Marcus had requested to be a monkey again, since that was his favorite. It was difficult for Stiles to maintain his grip as Marcus squirmed and giggled, making monkey noises and pretending to scratch his armpits as he was whirled through the air like a monkey through the jungle trees.

Stiles set the boy down and took a moment to catch his breath. “Alright, come on. Last one. What’s it gonna be?” he asked Aurelia.

She pursed her lips and tapped her chin in thought. He was certain she had picked that up from a movie somewhere. He thought she would make a great actress some day. “A dragon,” she said imperiously. Marcus gasped and jumped up, obviously upset that he hadn’t thought to make the same request.

“Okie dokie,” Stiles said and picked her up. By the time they were done, she was laughing breathlessly and falling over with the strength of her giggles. “Okay, okay, let’s go get snacks. Dragons and monkeys need lots of fuel to give them energy.”

Marcus, who had been about to complain about the unfairness of his sister getting to be a dragon while he didn’t, was immediately distracted by the thought of food. “Can we have cookies?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Stiles bargained, leading the kids down the stairs, “you eat some fruit first and then we’ll break out the cookies, sound good?”

Both children shouted their agreement to his terms and broke into a sprint for the kitchen. “Slow down!” Stiles shook his head as he followed them at a more sedate pace. He wasn’t sure how Nora handled their energy all the time.

“The little terrors wearing you out?” Laura asked with a smirk. She was leaning against the kitchen counter with a cup of tea, one eye on the tiny twins as they were endeavoring to either climb the refrigerator or wrestle (it was difficult to tell), and one eye on Stiles as he entered. He had no doubt that he likely looked nearly as haggard as he felt. He wrinkled his nose at her playfully before smiling.

“I’m near the point of collapse,” he admitted. “Aren’t werewolves supposed to lose energy near the new moon?”

Laura’s eyes were laughing at him, but she merely smirked and replied, “Most of them. The younger the werewolf, the more energy they have. Besides, human toddlers are hardly any better.”

Stiles just shrugged, not really having the point of reference to say if that was true. He pulled out some fruit that had already been cut up and put in the fridge and scooped some into two bowls, a purple one for Marcus and a green one for Aurelia. Marcus had decided two days ago that he could only eat out of the purple bowl and had refused any food given to him in any other dish. Aurelia was less picky about dishes than she was about food, but her favorite color was green, so Stiles grabbed it when he pulled Marcus’ bowl out of the dish drainer.

He set the little terrors down at the table with their food and joined Laura back at the counter with a sigh. She handed him a steaming cup with a grin that seemed to Stiles to be a little sadistic, even if he was grateful for the coffee he was being provided.

“You know that Nora is never going to let you leave now, right?” Laura commented. “I know that you being here was supposed to be temporary, or at least that was what was discussed, but having someone around who can give Nora a break every now and then? She’ll chain you up in the basement if she has to.”

Stiles laughed. “I don’t doubt it. I’ve only had them for a few hours and I need a nap. Doesn’t Peter take care of them sometimes too?”

“Oh, of course. But Nora is a professor and she took a sabbatical after the twins were born, meaning that she’s here all day and Peter’s gone most of the time with work and jobs for the pack. Also, you wouldn’t think it, but he’s the soft one with the kids. He totally spoils them.”

“I’ve seen it,” Stiles said. He was surprised at all, actually.

Laura hummed and took a sip of her tea. “So, are you going to join us for the party tomorrow night? Well, I guess it’s not really a party. More of a get together. But dad’s going to get out the grill and there’ll be a bonfire. Nobody’s going to dance naked around it though, sorry.”

Stiles grinned and shook his head. “No naked dancing? Sorry, that’s a deal breaker for me.”

“That’s too bad,” Laura said, her lips twitching with repressed laughter.

“Really though, I’ll be there.” Talia had already told him all about it. Derek, future Derek, had mentioned once, in passing, that the family used to celebrate the new moon similar to how they celebrated the full moon, but Stiles had never learned the details of it. Something about the sadness in Derek’s eyes and the way he’d immediately become more standoffish than usual invited no further questions. Talia, however, explained that werewolves have a very close relationship with the moon in all her phases and that the new moon is seen as just as important as the full one. Whereas the full moon is a time of revelry and a night of running with the pack in their wolf form, the new moon is a time of reflection and new beginnings. The pack would remain in human form the whole night and just spend the evening together, eating and relaxing. She explained that it was a bit like Thanksgiving and New Year’s put together, except that it happened every month. He was really looking forward to it.

“Besides,” he added, “I have something to give you guys tomorrow night.”

“Kazik!” she gasped. “Did you get us presents?”

“Maybe. You’ll have to wait and see. Don’t tell anyone else though.”

“Did you say presents?” Aurelia cried from the table. He really should have accounted for curious, werewolf toddler ears.

“Nope. You’re hearing things. Are you guys done with your fruit?”

“Yes!”

“Cookies?” Marcus asked hopefully. Stiles gave them cookies.

School the next day was torturously slow, and not just for Stiles. The werewolves were all dragging, their energy levels at their lowest as the moon’s light was hidden completely. They would slowly gain it back as the moon waxed back to full, but for the next twenty four hours they would be tired and cranky. In the car on the way to school, Laura had tried to make conversation with Derek, but had been snapped at by her brother who was already very much  _ not _ a morning person. Stiles had winced as the door slammed behind him when Derek exited the car and stalked off to class.

Stiles had considered skipping, but it didn’t seem fair when everyone else would still have to muddle through. The problem was that, contrary to what one might believe, the new moon’s zenith actually occurred at midday, meaning that Stiles needed to find a secluded, outdoor location to finish the protection amulets around noon. He had them all in the shoebox he’d been keeping them in, stuffed in his backpack. They rattled anytime the bag jostled and it made him cringe every time. At a quarter to noon, he asked to go to the bathroom and walked right out the building toward the spot where Derek had calmed him down from two panic attacks. He was lucky that the school hadn’t alarmed the doors yet, as they had in his time.

He walked a little further into the trees than he and Derek usually stood and knelt beneath a large oak. He spread a rectangle of blue velvet cloth on the ground - a lovely gift from Niamh embroidered with Celtic knots that she had said would help to ground his magic - and laid the amulets on top. He could feel the moon moving into position, how close it was to the sun. From his bag he pulled out a jar of a mixture he’d prepared, made of valerian, datura, and yarrow steeped in moon water. Using a small pair of iron tongs he’d bought from an amateur blacksmith on facebook, he dipped each amulet into the mixture, murmuring a short chant as he did so. His Spark reacted each time, making the mixture glow bright silver in the clear jar for a few seconds before he removed the amulet and set it back down on the cloth. The whole process took only about fifteen minutes, but at the end he felt drained, like he’d stuck a tap into his magic and siphoned off as much as possible without killing himself. He swayed where he knelt, his eyes closing against the sickening vertigo. Eventually his balance returned and he was able to pack away his supplies and stumble to his feet. 

He’d missed fifth period and most of lunch, but he still had time to grab a sandwich and an apple and sit down next to a worried looking Derek and start shoveling food into his mouth.

“Where were you?”

“Had something to do.”

“Like what?”

Stiles looked up at Derek’s furrowed eyebrows and gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Nothing bad, I promise. You’ll see tonight.”

Derek’s frown deepened, but he didn’t push any further. It was one of the differences between his current self and his once-and-future counterpart. This Derek only pressed a subject until it looked like Stiles didn’t want to go any further. Future Derek pushed until they were both screaming at each other and Stiles was most likely pressed against a wall, and not in the pleasant way. Stiles wasn’t sure how he felt about the difference.

He had hoped that once the first half of the day was finished and there were only a couple hours left, the rest would fly by. However, after spending fifteen minutes in sixth period fighting to stay awake and glaring at the clock, he learned that he was very mistaken. Still, no matter how much it felt like the day was never going to end, the final bell did eventually ring and the three of them piled back into Laura’s car with identical exhausted sighs. Laura was already yawning as she drove and even Derek was resting his head against the window instead of talking or fighting his sister for control of the stereo. Stiles actually did succeed in falling asleep during the short trip, only to be roused by the feeling of the car engine shutting off in the Hale driveway.

The ‘get together’ was already in full swing when they arrived. Ronan and Julian were in the backyard, setting up the grill. Or rather, arguing about  _ how _ to set up the grill by the looks of it. Talia and Niamh were in the kitchen chopping vegetables and laughing about something. Music was being played from speakers set up on the back porch, softly enough not to hurt werewolf ears but loud enough to be heard by Stiles and Nora, the only two humans. High pitched squeals could be heard from Marcus and Aurelia, likely chasing each other somewhere by the doppler effect Stiles was experiencing, even though he couldn’t see them.

The three high schoolers went up and put away their backpacks before joining everyone. Stiles took an extra moment to put each amulet he had made into small, velvet jewelry bags he’d gotten for this purpose. He put them all into a gift bag and set it just inside his bedroom door within easy reach before closing the door behind him and galloping down the stairs.

Peter, Stiles was informed, was currently picking up Cora from school and would be home any minute, but they were the only ones not yet there. Niamh passed Stiles a cup of what smelled like fruit punch on his way past her with a wink, which he took to mean that she’d slipped him some alcohol like the saint she was. He sipped it as he stepped onto the back porch and had to suppress a cough. Aunt Niamh certainly had a heavy hand with the vodka. He took another sip now that he was prepared and sat next to Laura, who’d already chosen a seat and was watching her father and brother bicker over the steaks that were sizzling on the now flaming grill. She sniffed at his cup and leered at him knowingly.

“Niamh?”

“Yep.”

“Nice.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the activity around them. Derek had been roped into playing a game with the twins somehow and, from what Stiles could tell, it looked like he was currently supposed to be some sort of monster chasing them. Nora came over and sat next to Laura with a sigh and took a large sip of her own drink, which even Stiles could tell had likely been also provided by Aunt Niamh.

“Sometimes I wish I were a werewolf just for the sake of being able to keep up with those two gremlins,” she lamented.

Stiles laughed. “I don’t blame you.”

Soon enough, the steaks were finished and all the food laid out on a large table set up on the grass. The group was even rowdier than they were at usual dinners, but they quieted immediately when Talia stood up to make her speech.

“As always, I invite us all to reflect on that which we have in abundance: love, connection, health, family, friends. May we give thanks to the Mother Moon for her gifts and honor her in her path as she honors us in ours. We welcome growth. We welcome transformation. We embrace the necessary strength to accept the changes to come and the grace to adapt with the flow of time.” She paused, the weight of her words washing over them like cool water. “Now,” she said suddenly, breaking into a grin, “let’s eat!”

Noise erupted again as everyone started filling their plates with food and talking over one another. Stiles smiled and sat back, looking around contentedly. Julian was teasing Derek about something, causing Derek to blush and shove at his brother in irritation. Laura soon joined in and Derek threw up his hands in aggravation, shouting something about a lack of familial loyalty. Stiles smirked and looked over to where Niamh and Ronan were deep in conversation about immigrant creatures and whether that was something that could be seen as dangerous. Niamh argued that all creatures had the right to live wherever they wanted, same as werewolves or humans, but Ronan countered that some creatures, like red caps, just shouldn’t be allowed to roam free.

“I’m just saying that scalping their victims and wearing the skin as a hat is not exactly benevolent behavior,” Ronan said in a faux-placid tone.

“So who decides that? Who has the right to put boundaries on creatures and where does it end? Hunters are primarily only concerned with the control or genocide of werewolves, so they’re not going to step up and broaden their purview, even if that was a desirable outcome.”

“Is this really a conversation to be had on a day of festival?” Peter chimed in lightly.

Niamh made a face at him. “It’s a time of reflection, dear Peter. We’re reflecting on the state of the world.”

Peter laughed. “Touché. I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

As interesting as Stiles found their conversation, he tuned them out to continue looking around the table. His mind just wouldn’t settle, too preoccupied with thoughts of the protection amulets upstairs and the reasons why they were necessary. He wouldn’t admit it, couldn’t even give the nebulous thought words in his own mind, but he was drinking in every moment of this evening. There was always a chance that something would go wrong. If he failed, then all of this would be gone in a couple months’ time. Even if he succeeded, he wasn’t sure that he could, or should, stay. 

“You alright?”

Stiles tried to hide how startled he was at Nora’s gentle whisper in his ear. He smiled at her to cover his reaction. “I’m great,” he said honestly. “Just got a little lost in my head, you know how it is.”

She hummed a little in agreement, but her eyes were shrewd as she continued to gaze at him appraisingly. “You’ve barely eaten anything.”

Stiles looked down at his plate. He hadn’t loaded up on nearly as much food as the wolves, but he’d hardly made a dent in the food he had grabbed. He flashed Nora a sheepish smile and took a giant bite of vegetables, his cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk. Nora shook her head but couldn’t fight the reluctant fond smile on his lips. He chewed and swallowed, resolving to stay more present for the rest of the meal.

By the time the food was cleared away and the various store-bought cookies and pies, plus the giant cake Niamh had made yesterday, had been reduced to crumbs, Ronan and Niamh seemed to have come to some sort of stalemate on their creature rights argument, Julian had smeared frosting in Laura’s hair, Marcus had stolen no less than a dozen cookies and hidden them on his person, and Stiles had somehow gotten embroiled in a heated discussion with Cora about which Disney villain would win in a fight (obviously Maleficent would trounce them all, like the bad bitch she was). Everyone started to wind down and settle into a more comfortable atmosphere beneath the citronella torches and aesthetically hung fairy lights. Peter was holding Marcus and Aurelia in his lap as they pretended not to be sleepy, their father smiling indulgently and letting them stay up for the special occasion. Stiles took the opportunity during the lull in activity to slip away and grab the gift bag from his room.

He came back out and stood at what was approximately the front of the now spread out pack, everyone having migrated slowly away from the table to sit on chairs and blankets in the grass. He cleared his throat to get their attention. Everyone looked to him immediately and he summoned up the bravado he’d relied on his whole life in order not to squirm beneath their attention.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly. “In keeping with the new moon tradition of thankfulness and wanting to hold onto and appreciate what you have, I made something for you all. They’re unique to each of you, so no trading or anything like that. And uh, don’t lose them, please, they aren’t exactly easy to replace.”

With that, he went around and started handing out the soft velvet bags. The kitschy, new age occult store he’d bought the bags in had a variety of colors, meaning he was able to pick a different shade for each person and not have to go fumbling through looking for the right one as he went around. He gave Talia hers first, since she was the Alpha, followed by what he thought was roughly the hierarchy of the pack. Once the bag was empty and everyone had their amulet, he stepped back and waited anxiously for their reactions.

“Oh, Kazik,” Talia said softly, running a fingertip over the carved malachite. Her expression was soft and wondrous as she stared down at the necklace, obviously at least somewhat aware of the effort that was put into it. “Thank you.”

Stiles gave a little shrug and tried to wave it off, but secretly he was more than a little relieved at her reaction. “It’s for my own peace of mind more than anything,” he admitted.

“These must have taken you a month to make,” Niamh said, already pulling on her own necklace. He shivered a little as he felt the protection slide into place. The goal was to make something with a self-contained power source, like a tiny well, but he’d poured so much of himself into each one of the amulets that he would never not be at least a little bit connected to them. “And such  _ power _ .”

Stiles blushed and opened his mouth to respond, but Laura cut him off by flinging herself at him in a hug that nearly knocked him to the ground. He caught her instinctively and stumbled a bit before regaining his balance.

“I don’t know as much about magic as Uncle Peter,” she said, “but I know enough to realize what a valuable gift these are. I hope you know that what I said earlier about not being able to leave the pack is now even more true.”

He laughed and hugged her a little tighter before letting go. He got a few more thanks from the rest of the pack and listened to Marcus and Aurelia squeal about their amulets and how they fit together like puzzle pieces before the clamor died down again and he went to sit next to Derek, who was examining his amulet in the torchlight, the flames catching in the corners of the carving as he turned it this way and that, making the wolf seem to move.

“Do you like it?” Stiles asked softly.

Derek looked up at him with a far more serious expression than Stiles was expecting. It made his stomach twist into knots with apprehension. “It’s amazing,” Derek whispered. “I feel like...like I don’t know what it means but it still speaks to me, you know?” He shook his head self-deprecatingly. “Does that sound dumb?”

Stiles smiled. “Not at all. I’m not sure what it means myself. I didn’t exactly make the conscious decision to make it like that. It was like my magic decided for me.”

“So that’s how you made everyone’s? Just let your magic take over?”

Stiles looked away and cleared his throat slightly. “Uh, no. Yours was the only one that, you know, was like that. Everyone else’s I had to think about.”

“Oh.”

“Mhmm.”

Derek nudged his shoulder and Stiles looked back over at him, afraid of what he might see on Derek’s face. “I guess that means I’m special, huh?” Derek said with a shit-eating grin.

Stiles snorted and shoved at him. “You wish, Hale.”

Derek laughed and let himself be moved slightly by Stiles’ push, despite the fact that Stiles knew it would be like trying to shove a brick wall otherwise. “Nuh uh, don’t lie to me, Kaz. You just told me that your magic said I was special.”

“I never said that!” Stiles protested. “I literally never said that.”

Derek just arched an eyebrow at him smugly in a way that was just so quintessentially  _ Derek _ that Stiles’ heart tripped over itself before starting to beat double time. He found himself staring for just a few seconds too long before shaking his head and looking away, muttering about werewolves and their egos and trying not to think about how much he loved seeing this happy, lighter version of the man who had grown to be so important to him. He leaned back on his hands and stretched his legs in front of him before steering the topic to less dangerous waters. He got Derek to tell him more about a new book series he was reading, which he had mentioned at lunch the other day but now he had the time to really get into describing the worldbuilding and characters, his hands occasionally flying up to emphasize his point. His retelling of some of his favorite scenes were dramatic and hilarious and Stiles found himself invested even though he had never read a single page of the book. The vodka from earlier had long since worn off, having only provided a faint buzz to begin with, but Stiles still felt relaxed and loose limbed, sprawled out on the blanket next to Derek as he watched his theatrical facial expressions.

It was late by the time everyone started cleaning up and heading inside for bed, but since it was Friday no one really cared about the hour. Stiles grinned sleepily at everyone in the hallway and waved goodnight before shutting his bedroom door and tossing himself on the bed. Tonight had been lovely. He couldn’t believe that his old (future?) pack never celebrated the new moon like this. Then again, he reconsidered, they had only just barely begun having calm, non-violent downtime. Holidays were the last thing on anyone’s mind.

He kicked off his shoes lazily and rolled over, his mind still churning. Comparing the Hale pack to the ragtag group of teenagers and one damaged young adult forced him to confront the fact that no matter how much work they had put into healing and working better as a team, it would have taken  _ years _ to reach even a fraction of the cohesion and natural intimacy of a solid pack. He’d thought he’d known what had been lost when the Hales had been murdered, thought he’d understood the depth of the injustice Kate and Gerard had perpetrated, but he’d had no idea. 

Everything was falling in line for his plan, though. By next Monday the Argents would, hopefully, no longer pose any threat to the pack and he could focus on the other things on his list that he wanted to correct in the timeline. He drifted off to sleep going over the details of his and Peter’s plans, examining them for flaws.


End file.
